


Degeneration

by lanri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, De-Aged Sam Winchester, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:30:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4914235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanri/pseuds/lanri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam turns into a kid and Dean flails a lot.</p><p>(original, I know. I couldn't resist)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is also up on my fanfiction, in case anyone prefers that format https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11270628/1/Degeneration

Dean hated witches.

“I hate witches,” he said.

Sam’s sigh was rather typical. And annoying. “I know, man. We don’t have to fight this one, though.”

“Yeah.” Dean moodily scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot, waiting for Sam to finish picking the lock. “Still. We should be going after Leviathans, not this crap. You sure this is even legit?” He really needed to call Frank, check up on their leads on Dick Roman.

The tense set to Sam’s shoulders told Dean he was pushing a little too hard. Years ago, that would’ve made him back off and shut his mouth. Dean was too pissed at everything to give it much notice.

Sam ignored Dean’s objections, muttering, “let’s go.” The door clicked open, and Sam headed in first. Dean bit back an angry comment on the tip of his tongue about Sam’s ability to lead with his history. He had already questioned Sam once tonight, no need to deal out a second hit.

Sam flinched in front of him, and Dean raised his gun. “What is it?” he hissed. Eyeing Sam, he noticed the way his brother’s gaze flickered to his left.

“Uh, nothing. Sorry. Thought I—“ Sam’s voice trailed off as his gaze zeroed in to the back of the room. “The altar.”

Dean made a face. “You’d think modern day witches would move past this stuff,” he muttered.

“Old power has the most juice,” Sam said distractedly. “We need to find his object of power.”

“Okay.” Dean nudged a candle with his foot. “This guy is crazy.”

“Probably.” Sam was scanning the bookshelf behind the altar, hands running over the dusty tomes. “I think I’ve got it.”

Dean looked up in time to see Sam grip a large book. Too late, a strange glowing on the outer cover met his eyes; Sam seized up and began to fall over.

“Sam!” he shouted. It was almost rote—Sam was in trouble, shout his name, even though he was right there. Dean managed to gather him into a controlled fall, landing mostly on his rear end. He groaned as Sam fell on top of him.

“Sam,” he said repeated, “are you okay?”

The book slipped from Sam’s hands, hitting the floor. “Dean?”

Dean figured it was an automatic reaction for Sam as well. Something goes wrong, call Dean’s name. “Dean” had even been his first word.

“Yeah, Sam. You good? What happened there?”

Sam managed to push himself into a hunched over position, breathing a little heavily. “Feels like I was tased,” he said.

Dean looked him over cautiously. “Yeah? That’s all?”

Sam nodded, and Dean let out a breath. “Well, let’s get this done.”

Despite how much of a drag routine hunts like this had become, Dean took some pleasure from burning the book, and graffitiing the altar with a warning to stop doing witchcraft or they would return.

“You wanna get a drink?” Dean asked as they left. He kept his voice neutral—it wasn’t that he wouldn’t mind having Sam there, but generally his brother tended to be a bit of a downer at a bar.

To his mild relief, Sam shook his head. “I’m—I’m good. Are you going to drive, or . . .“

“There’s one in walking distance.” Dean got into the car—man, he missed the Impala—and watched in bemusement as Sam put his seatbelt on. Boy Scout. “I’ll drop you off.”

“Thanks. Uh, tomorrow, I think I’ve found another hunt we can check out.”

“Great.”

Dean parked the car in the deserted lot. The need for something in his system to dull his senses was getting overwhelming—if Dean let it go on for too long, he’d start thinking about the Leviathans, and then Bobby, and he couldn’t . . .

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was quiet as he stood in the motel parking lot. There was pain in his eyes. “Don’t drink too much, alright?”

Dean bristled. “Oh yeah? Why do you care?”

Sam seemed to steel himself. Dean didn’t like the look in his eye. “You’ve been letting B-Bobby’s death get to you, and you’ve been drinking too much,” he said. “After what happened, with the Amazons . . . You’re gonna get yourself killed. You’re being reckless.”

“Reckless?” Dean laughed, meanly. “Yeah, reckless, sure, like you can talk with everything that’s happened last year.”

He had gone too far. Sam reeled backwards, eyes wounded. “Never mind,” he said dully.

“Sam—“

Dean watched helplessly as Sam retreated into their motel room, slamming the door behind him. Dean sighed, heavily. He would make it up to Sam with a coffee in the morning. Assuming he got up in time.

* * *

Sunlight assaulted Dean’s eyes. He groaned, turning and shoving his face into the pillow. So much for his plan to get Sam coffee.

“S’m, too bright,” he mumbled.

There was no response, except for footsteps going towards the motel door. Light, cautious steps, like Sam used whenever he was trying to sneak around.

At that thought, Dean forced his eyes open. “Are we heading out today?” he asked.

There was an inhaled breath—and then the click of a gun being cocked.

Dean tensed, carefully sliding one hand under his pillow.

“Who are you?” a high voice demanded.

“Whoa, whoa—“ Dean pretended to be going slow as he turned over from his stomach to his back, but then sped up at the last second, rolling entirely off the bed and into a crouching position, gun aimed at . . . a kid. “Who the hell are you?”

“I could ask you the same thing!” The kid was pointing a gun at him, but it was shaking so badly he would probably miss Dean entirely.

“Yeah? Well, this is my motel room, and you’re the little—“ Dean nearly used an expletive that would not be appropriate for the . . . seven? eight?-year old glaring at him. “—twerp who snuck in here,” Dean finished lamely. Maybe Sam had picked up a stray and forgotten to tell Dean. As it was, he was done having a gun pointed at him. He slowly shifted his weight.

“So where is your family?” he asked.

The gun shook even harder. “When my dad gets back, he’ll kick your butt,” the kid promised. “What did you do with Dean?”

Dean blinked, the gun pointing at him momentarily forgotten. “What?” he asked dumbly.

The kid’s lower lip wobbled. “If you hurt him, I’ll kill you,” he said. The threat was defanged by the fact that the safety was still on his gun.

If Dean had been any other person, he wouldn’t have figured it out so quickly. But he had been through enough in his lifetime to know what was going on.

“I swear, if you angels up there are to blame for this, we’re having words,” Dean promised the ceiling darkly. He stepped forward, momentarily off-put by the kid’s—Sam’s—fearful cringe. “Hey, Sam. This is going to sound crazy, but I’m Dean.”

“Don’t take another step!” Sam’s voice was shrill. “You’re lying! Where’s Dean?”

Dean eyed Sam critically. His memory was too vague to recall whether this was Sam at an age previous to knowing about the supernatural or not.

“Your Dad, he went on a hunting trip?” he asked. One more step and he would be in range to grab the gun.

“How did you know that?” Sam demanded.

Right, so Sam knew about the supernatural. That might make things a little simpler.

“I told you, I’m Dean. What will it take to prove that to you?”

Sam’s eyes flickered away, considering. Dean took the opportunity to dart forward, snagging the gun. Desperate cries of “no!” and “Dean!” filled the air, as Sam wrestled with Dean, fighting viciously for the gun.

“C’mon, Sam,” Dean grunted, wrapping him in a bear hug. “It’s me.”

“No, it’s not! Dean, help me!” Sam cried out.

Dean lifted Sam higher, feeling a sharp heel dig into his thigh, a little too close to his groin for his comfort. “Sam, it’s me!” he barked. “Calm down!”

Instead of taking his advice, teeth suddenly dug into Dean’s arm. Dean let out a yelp—a very manly yelp, thank you very much—and dropped the kid, nearly losing his grip on the guns in the process.

Mini-Sam threw himself into the bathroom, shoving the door closed and locking it before Dean could do anything.

Dean let out a growl, thumping his fist against the cheap wood. “Stop being ridiculous, Sam.”

“Go away!” There were tears in Sam’s voice. Great.

Dean thought for a moment, before speaking up. “Sam, c’mon. Look, um, when you were six, some brat stole your lunch. You didn’t let me know until later that week, and when I found out, I beat him up and got kicked out of school for a week. You were upset, so you tried to make me cupcakes and nearly burned the motel down.”

There was a sniff, inside the bathroom. Dean considered breaking the door down, but figured that wouldn’t make Sam any more likely to listen.

Sam’s voice came through, tiny and hesitant. “What’s our secret password?”

Dean let his head fall against the door. “Sam, it’s been a long time, I don’t remember it,” he said.

“You swore you’d never ever ever forget it!”

It was a long shot. Dean swallowed. “The Impala rocks?” he tried.

There was a pause, and then the door’s lock clicked and it opened. Sam stared up at him, red-rimmed eyes as wide as saucers.

“Dean?” he asked.

“Yeah, kiddo, it’s me.” Dean forced his face into a smile. “Crazy day, huh?”

Sam’s head bobbed up and down, shaggy hair going into his face. “Why are you so big?” he asked.

“Not sure if you’ll believe me, but, uh, I think it was a witch,” Dean said.

“And it made you big?”

Dean grimaced. “Uh, other way around, kid. It made you small.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Dean echoed. He rubbed his hand across his eyes. “How ‘bout we go get some breakfast and figure this out?”

Sam looked down at himself—engulfed in a t-shirt that hung off of one skinny shoulder. “Um, like this?”

“F—“ Dean cut himself off. He would have to watch his mouth around mini-Sam. “Fudge,” he finished off his curse. Sam looked at him, nonplussed. “Right. Goodwill first, then breakfast.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean had started telling Sam about all the different types of monsters out there only a couple months ago. Sam was still having nightmares about it, but he had been gradually getting used to the idea.

Somehow witches hadn’t made the list yet. Or time travel. Or whatever was going on.

He trotted next to big Dean, who was completely focused on going forward. Sam thought about asking to be carried piggyback, but he didn’t want to bother him; Dean might be annoyed at Sam for being such a baby. So instead, Sam did his best to avoid the gravel as he half-jogged beside Dean’s longer stride.

And then he tripped. Sam went sprawling with a cry, feeling pain blossom in his knees and the palms of his hands.

“You okay?”

Sam sucked back his tears—he didn’t want Dean to think he was a wimp. “I’m okay,” he mumbled. “Just hurt my hands.” He lifted his palms for Dean’s inspection, feeling a little better when Dean seemed to seriously look at the cuts, big hands cradling Sam’s smaller ones.

“Looks superficial,” he murmured. “But we can put some bandaids on them when we get back to the room.”

“Kay.” Sam tried to stand up, but found himself scooped into Dean’s arms without saying anything.

“Sorry, kiddo, shouldn’t’ve let you walk around barefoot like that,” he muttered.

“It’s okay.” Sam carefully gripped the edge of Dean’s jacket for balance. “Didn’t mean to fall over.”

Sam’s Dean would’ve usually made some joke about Sam being a klutz and distracted him with a funny story. This Dean just fell silent, focused back on the sidewalk.

“Dean,” Sam started hesitantly. He fell silent when Dean looked at him, his eyes tired and sharp.

“What, Sam?”

Sam bit his lip. “Um, if we’re in the future, then where’s Dad?”

He had thought Dean’s face looked stubborn and emotionless before—now, Dean’s eyes were completely flat and cold. “He’s been gone for a long time now, Sam,” his older—much, much older—brother said.

“Dead?” Sam whispered.

Dean’s gaze moved back to the street. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” Sam twisted a little in Dean’s grip so that he was looking behind and Dean couldn’t see his face. The last thing he had said to Dad was to complain about their cereal. Sam suddenly ached to take them back, to tell Dad that he loved him, that he was sorry.

“Here we are, let’s get you some clothes, now.”

Sam was being put down. He slipped away from the older Dean, hiding in the stacks of clothes, even as Dean called out in alarm. Sam buried his face in a funny smelling coat and sobbed. He stayed hidden for a long time, until he heard Dean’s voice gain a hint of real desperation.

“Sam! C’mon, kid, where’d you go?”

Sam took a deep breath, wiping his eyes.

“I’m here.” He kept his hair in front of his eyes, so Dean wouldn’t be able to see he’d been crying. “I didn’t find any clothes.”

“That’s okay, I grabbed you some stuff. You wanna change?”

Sam took the proffered clothes and made his escape again, feeling guilty for even wanting to be away from Dean. This Dean was so different though, Sam didn’t know what to do.

“I, uh, found a Spiderman shirt. You want it?”

A shirt was tossed over the opening of the changing room’s door. Sam took it and looked at the price tag. He finished changing into the clothes Dean had first found for him.

“It’s pretty expensive,” he said quietly, opening the door. “These are fine.”

Dean’s face twisted into an expression Sam couldn’t understand. “Trust me, kiddo, we can handle a seven dollar shirt.”

“Okay.”

They finished their errands, ending up at a diner.

“So . . . you think a witch did this to me?” Sam ventured, once they had gotten their food.

Dean nodded. “We were taking care of an altar last night. That’s the best explanation.”

Sam pushed around his eggs, stomach tied up in too many knots to be hungry. “What are we gonna do?”

“We’ll go back to the witch and ask him nicely to turn you back.”

Sam saw Dean’s left eyelid twitch. That was Dean’s tell for lying, he had used it last week when Sam had asked if Dad would come back soon.

He wasn’t willing to confront this Dean, though. He pasted a smile on his face, and bent over his rapidly cooling breakfast.

“I, uh, I am curious,” Dean said.

“Yeah?” Sam asked warily.

“What’s the last thing you remember? I mean, maybe there’s a reason you turned back to this specific age.”

Sam made a face. “Um, going to bed? It was a normal night.” He frowned. “I had a test this morning in math.”

For the first time, Dean’s face split into a small smile. “I’m pretty sure you aced it, geek boy.”

Sam ducked his head, smiling.

“Okay, finish your breakfast and we’ll head over, huh?”

Sam pushed his plate away—Dean’s also had a lot of food left on it, which was . . . weird. “I’m done.”

“Okay.”

* * *

Sam kinda expected something out of the movies: big dilapidated house, a rabid dog tied up in the front, some spooky wind.

Instead, it looked like a normal house. Nicer than the ones they usually had to squat in. Sam glanced uncertainly up at Dean. His head was starting to ache, but he ignored it.

“Is this the right one?”

“Yeah, now shut up, we need to be careful.”

Sam clammed up quickly, falling into step behind Dean. He waited for Dean to knock on the door, but instead the man kicked down the door, the wood splintering.

There was a sharp cry from inside. Sam hovered in the doorway as Dean charged ahead.

“Dean?” he called out, weakly. “Dean, what are you doing?”

“Get in here, Sam,” the command came, sharp and loud. Sam scurried inside, hiding behind Dean and staring at the small man cowering on the floor.

“Are you the witch?” he asked.

The guy stared at Sam. “Who’s the kid?”

Dean’s gun was pointed unerringly at the man. “That would be my kid brother. Who, yesterday, was over six feet tall. Why don’t you tell me what spell you put on that book of yours?”

The man sneered. “You’re the hunters who came after me, huh? Well, boo hoo. You destroyed my stuff, now you have to deal with it.”

There was a loud click. Sam stared, wide-eyed at Dean, holding out his gun. “Wanna try that again?”

The smug expression slid away. “Look, man, I’m serious. The spell’s parameters were only to make him vulnerable. Of course, it wasn’t designed for two hunters. I should’ve thought of that,” he said.

Dean leaned forward aggressively. “That’s not a good enough answer. Reverse it, now.”

“I can’t!”

Dean looked so angry. There was a sour feeling in Sam’s stomach, and he took a tiny step forward, drawing both mens’ gazes to him.

“Please?” he whispered. “Please change me back.”

Something approaching sympathy filled the man’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I really can’t. With my altar and book destroyed, I have no power.”

Dean growled a curse that Sam didn’t recognize. He raised his gun again.

“Well, then, I have no use for you,” he said.

“Dean!” Sam cried out.

“No, wait! Look, my spells weren’t that powerful. There’s a high chance he’ll turn back or something on his own,” the witch said.

“How do I know you aren’t lying?” Dean asked. Sam watched him, wide-eyed.

“You don’t.”

Sam made up his mind, and put himself in-between the witch and Dean. “Dean, let’s just leave,” he begged. “He doesn’t know.”

Dean looked down at him, face unreadable. “Fine.”

Sam followed Dean out of the house again, jogging to keep up with him. “Dean, am I gonna be stuck like this?”

“I don’t know, Sam.”

“Do you know any counterspells? Or maybe some place that breaks spells? Like a hotspot or something, right?”

“I don’t know, Sam.”

“Do you still talk to Pastor Jim? He was telling me last month about—“

“Sam!” Dean rounded on him, glaring down. “I don’t know, okay? Stop asking all these questions.”

Sam shrank back, bobbing his head in an unsteady nod. Through his bangs, he saw Dean scrub a tired hand across his face.

“Sorry, Sam. Look, we’ll figure this out, okay? Let’s get back to the motel.”

“Okay,” Sam whispered.

“Do you . . . do you want a piggy back?”

Sam shook his head. He heard Dean sigh, and wasn’t sure if it was because of what he had been asking earlier, or because of his refusal.

His head was pounding, and there were strange, scary sounds in Sam’s ears. By the time they got back to the motel, all Sam could do was crawl into bed and let the pain sweep him into unconsciousness.

It was less than peaceful, though. Sam struggled in the syrupy state between waking and sleeping, staring at faces he didn’t know, faces covered in blood that screamed at him. He tried to cry out, but he wasn’t able to pull free. One face came close, hand reaching out to brush Sam’s face. “Hush, now. Lie still and let me hurt you.” The hand plunged into Sam’s chest, and he screamed and screamed, but no one helped him. He was all alone. He would be here for eternity.

And it was all his fault.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean stared dully at his sleeping little brother. Emphasis on the little. He had no idea what he was doing. Heck, he had just taken his kid brother on a hunt, completely defenseless. What had he been thinking? If Bobby had been there, he would’ve—

Pain rose up in a wave, and Dean drew out his ever-constant bottle of alcohol.

Dean let himself be lulled into a near-sleep state when he heard a whimper. Ever since he had been four years old, he had been tuned into Sam’s distress. Sure, he could ignore it at times, but with Sam this young and vulnerable, he couldn’t help but respond.

Dean pushed himself up from his bed, looking over at the little huddled form of his brother.

“Sam,” he mumbled. “Sam, you okay?”

There was another whimper. Dean stumbled across the gap, hovering over Sam. “Sam,” he said. “Wake up.”

Sam’s face was scrunched into something that looked like pain, his breath coming in short pants. Dean reached out, shaking his shoulders gently.

Sam’s eyes shot open, rolling wildly. He immediately began struggling, twisting in Dean’s grip. Out of reflex, Dean let him go.

“Whoa, man, what’s wrong?”

Sam stared at him, and then burst into tears.

Dumbfounded, Dean awkwardly sat down on the edge of the bed. “Sam, what’s wrong?” Sam curled up into a ball, shaking his head with sobs shaking his small frame. Old instincts began to tug at Dean’s heart, and he slid forward, winding an arm around Sam’s shoulders. “Hey, kiddo. You can talk to me.”

For a moment, Sam was completely tense and still—with a deep, shuddery breath, he let all of it out, flopping limply against Dean except for one hand, tight in the edge of Dean’s t-shirt. “It’s scary,” he whispered. Dean could hear embarrassment in his voice, and it made his guts twist uncomfortably.

“What’s scary?” he prompted softly.

“Everything’s different, and Dad’s gone and Dean—my Dean’s gone.”

Dean swallowed, emotions making his voice rough. “I know, Sam. I swear, we’ll figure this out, okay? You can trust me, right?”

Sam nodded, burying his face into Dean’s t-shirt. Dean let himself be sentimental for a moment, pressing his lips against Sam’s soft hair. “You wanna go back to sleep?” he asked.

Sam nodded again.

“Okay.” Dean maneuvered himself out of the bed, tucking Sam in tightly. “Sleep well.”

There was something hollow and desperate in Sam’s eyes. Dean paused.

“Sam, something wrong?”

“No, nothing,” Sam said. He closed his eyes, leaving Dean to puzzle over the mystery that was his nine year old brother. Assuming he was nine. He had never asked.

“And crappiest brother of the year award goes to . . .” he mumbled to himself. Slouching over to the motel table, he looked with consternation at Sam’s laptop. It looked like he would have to do the research this time.

Searches about spells, time continuums and the aging process made Dean’s head spin. When Sam began stirring again, five hours had passed, and Dean had nothing to show for it.

There was a soft cry from the bed. Dean tore his tired eyes away from the screen to find Sam—yet again—having a nightmare.

“Sam, get up!” Dean’s voice was too loud; too tired and frustrated, he didn’t modulate his aggressiveness. Sam jerked out of sleep, terror in his eyes. “Dude, what’s going on?” Dean asked.

Sam focused on him, small face solemn. “I’m fine,” he said, sounding eerily similar to the older version of Sam. Dean shrugged, looking back at the laptop.

“No luck with the research,” he said. He glanced at the newspaper article Sam had picked out before they had gone after the witch. There was another hunt waiting for them, but there was no way—

Sam clambered up onto one of the motel chairs, looking down at the newspaper. “What’s this?”

“Just another hunt.”

Sam bit his lip, eyes scanning the article. “Do we need to help?”

Surprised, Dean sat back. “Yeah, well, we can’t, not with you like this.”

“But someone else might be hurt, Dean.” Sam said earnestly. Dean was dumbfounded. Most of his childhood memories centered around Sam complaining about hunting, dragging his feet, or coming up with the tiniest reason why he couldn’t go.

“You sure, Sammy?”

His little brother squared up his shoulders, like he was trying to make himself bigger. It was friggin’ cute, but Dean wasn’t about to say that and lose rapport with this version of Sam. “Yeah,” he said, “we need to help.”

Dean shut the laptop, sighing. “Okay, kid, but remember this was your choice, got it?”

Sam nodded, almost eagerly. “Kay! I’ll pack my stuff!”

He was like a little puppy. A little puppy with ADHD, maybe. Dean shook his head, scooping up the rest of his own things.

“You’re gonna have to ride in the back,” he warned, as they got to the car.

Sam pouted. “You got to ride up front all the time when you were nine,” he argued.

“Yeah, well, who knows what Dad was thinking.” Dean nudged him towards the back, hiding a smile at Sam’s huff.

The drive passed by easily, which caught Dean off guard—he was being surprised by the kid version of Sam a lot more than he would’ve predicted—as Sam didn’t whine at all about the length of the trip or Dean’s music. Dean glanced in the rearview mirror, finding Sam gazing out the window, little face set in a serious expression. Dean could spout off Sam’s favorite movies throughout his entire childhood, but right now, he couldn’t really say that he knew his little brother at all. Like the thing with the t-shirt price. Had Sam been aware of how tight money was? Dean could remember scrimping and saving, but he had never brought it up with Sam, nor did he remember Sam asking about it.

He did vaguely remember how there had been a couple times when money had been miraculously found in his pockets. Dean had always attributed it to Dad hiding it away for him, but what if—

“Dean, can we stop for a bathroom break?”

Dean shook himself, glancing at the gas meter. “Yeah, we should stop for gas anyway.”

By the time Sam was done in the bathroom, Dean had finished gassing up.

“You wanna grab something from the store?” he asked.

“I’m okay.” Sam slid into the back, leaving Dean frowning after him. Sam had hardly eaten any breakfast, he had to be hungry. Dean stuck his head through the open window.

“Seriously, Sam. We won’t be stopping for a couple more hours, aren’t you hungry?”

Sam shrugged. “I can wait until the next time we stop at a bar so we have money.”

Dean swallowed hard. All his assumptions about Sam being naive and oblivious to their financial situation had to be rewritten. He went into the gas station and snagged some food for Sam, ignoring the hot chick manning the counter.

“Eat this,” he grunted, tossing the food into the back without looking at the little boy in the seat.

“Thanks,” Sam said.

Dean’s chest felt tight and his stomach twisted uncomfortably. “No problem.”

* * *

Ever since Sam’s memories of hell had come back—courtesy of Castiel’s terrible choices—Dean had told himself to rely only on his own judgment. Sure, Sam gave input and he was still a great hunter, but it was also true that now, with a somewhat questionable mental state, Sam couldn’t be trusted. It wasn’t his fault, but it was the way things had to be.

Dean had pretended he was being completely self-reliant. But now, with his Sam shrunken into the younger version, Dean was realizing how false that was. Sure, Dean had made the big decisions without any input from Sam. But he hadn’t realized how much he really relied on Sam for input, his own view on the hunt.

It was a struggle; Dean visited the medical examiner without a partner and nearly used the wrong badge with the wrong name. It was off-balancing, and humbling. Even after he left the ME's, Dean was forced to ponder what Sam might’ve said in response to a man killed by a giant octopus.

He returned to little Sam, finding him reading through their journals.

“Learning anything?” he asked mildly, mind still focused on the case.

Sam didn’t look at him.

“Sam,” Dean said, a little sharper. “Why are you—“

He swallowed, heart in his throat as Sam looked up, eyes red and tear tracks down his face.

“What is it?” Dean asked.

Sam hunched in on himself, eyes looking Dean over, inspecting him. Dean could remember him doing the same thing every time Dean came home after a hunt with Dad.

“You died?” Sam whispered.

Thrown, Dean didn’t think to lie. “Yeah, guess so.” It had been so long ago . . .

He was suddenly wrapped up in the embrace of his little brother, Sam’s face smushed into his belly and his t-shirt getting wet from tears.

“Sam,“ he said. “Sam, look, I’m fine, promise.” Sobs were shaking Sam’s small body. Dean sighed, kneeling and drawing Sam into an actual hug. “I swear, Sam. I’m fine.”

“But you weren’t, and it was my fault,” Sam cried into Dean’s shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sam, it wasn’t your fault,” Dean said. He glanced at the journal, sitting innocuously on the table. Scooping Sam up into his arms—were nine year olds supposed to be so light?—he looked at the page Sam had been reading. Sam’s scratchy hand-writing was barely legible to Dean’s eyes, but he saw “hell” and “raising the dead” and “demonic deals” on the pages and that was enough.

“It’s okay, Sam. Everything worked out, alright?”

“Did it really?” Sam asked.

Dean had no answer.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam’s head wouldn’t stop pounding. He rubbed at his forehead out of Dean’s sight, dropping his hand as soon as Dean finished microwaving their dinner. “Sam, do you want to come with me?”

Sam took his re-heated pizza reluctantly, managing a bite. “To go where?”

“This investigation. I’m checking up on the victim’s wife, and I don’t want you to be stuck here alone.”

Sam nodded his head. He didn’t want to be stuck here either. “Okay.”

“We need to come up with a reason for you to be tagging along,“ Dean said, taking a bite out of his own slice.

“I could be your partner,” Sam said excitedly. “Like a cop. They always have another cop with them.”

Dean smiled at him. “Yeah, somehow I think most of those cops are taller than under four feet, tiger. Look, I know it sounds weird, but will you pretend to be my son?”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “I guess. Why couldn’t I be your brother?”

“I’m too old,” Dean explained, “and it wouldn’t make sense that way.”

“Sure.” Sam set down his pizza, pushing it away. “Are we going now?”

“If you’re up for it.”

Sam wiped his hands off carefully and jumped off the seat, getting his shoes on. He felt Dean’s eyes on him, and turned back, frowning.

“What?”

“Follow my lead, okay?”

Sam kept his head down, staying in the car while Dean went inside to talk or something. He leaned back against the musty fabric. In the corner of his vision, he saw a flash of red, bloody chains—a latticework across the car windows that clinked together threateningly. Sam scrambled for the door handle, spilling out onto the sidewalk and taking deep breaths.

“Are you okay?”

A girl stared at him. Sam swallowed, pressing out a tiny smile. “I’m good. Can I join you?”

She nodded, curls spilling over her shoulder as she went back to rubbing chalk against the ground.

“What are you drawing?” Sam asked, picking up the red piece of chalk. He let his hands go to work, focusing on the little girl.

“What are you drawing?” she countered.

“I don’t know.”

“Then I don’t know,” she mimicked.

“Is it a monster?” Sam asked. It looked like an octopus . . . with large teeth.

She nodded. “They told me to draw what I was scared of, that’s why I’m drawing it.”

“Who’s they?”

“The Plucky people.”

“The place with the clowns?” Sam checked.

The little girl nodded, finishing a tentacle. “If you draw it, it can’t hurt you anymore. I told Daddy about it, but he didn’t listen to me.”

Sam looked up, just in time to see Dean exiting the house. He scrambled to his feet, wiping chalk dust off on his pants. The woman looked strangely at him, and Sam heard Dean say something about “my boy” and “bring your kid to work day.” The lady still seemed suspicious, so Sam quickly got into the car, waiting for Dean to do the same.

Dean paused at Sam’s chalk drawing for a moment, and then got in the car.

“Let’s get out of here before she puts two and two together,” Dean muttered, revving the engine.

“Did you solve the case?” Sam ventured.

Dean sighed, rubbing his face. “Not yet. The nanny said something about going to Plucky Pennywhistle’s, we might check there next.”

“I talked to the girl,” Sam said, hesitantly. “You said the man was killed by a giant octopus?”

“Giant octopus with vampire teeth, apparently,” Dean muttered. “Why?”

“She was drawing an octopus. ‘Cuz she was scared of it. Do you think that’s why her dad died from one?”

“Nine years old and already solving cases.” Dean’s smile was proud, and Sam basked in it. “Let’s head over to Plucky’s, huh? Didn’t you love that place?”

The smile slid off of Sam’s face. “Um, right now?”

“Yeah, while they’re open.” Dean glanced back at Sam. “Why?”

“Nothing.” Sam said. He was quiet the rest of the drive, the silence filled up with Dean fiddling with the radio.

“You can go play, if you want,” Dean suggested as they got out. “I’ll have to pay for us to get in, anyway.”

Sam shook his head, staying close to Dean. A frightening sight—a clown—laughed and tried to take Sam’s hand. Sam clung to Dean’s jacket instead, feeling Dean look down at him.

“At least some things don’t change,” he muttered. “Sam, you wanna check out the place?”

He swallowed, peeling his hands off of Dean’s jacket. He could be brave. “Yeah.”

Dean had left Sam at Plucky’s a couple months ago, while he went to be with some friends. Sam had hated it with a passion. He dodged screaming children and angry parents, getting into the back area. Dean probably hadn’t wanted Sam to go back here, but if he was going to be a hunter, he might as well do it all the way.

Sam snuck down one hallway, peeking in a door—it contained a horrific amount of costumes and clown masks, and he moved on. The next room had lockers. Sam glanced around and slid inside.

“What are you doing in here?”

Sam squeaked in surprise at the harsh voice. He turned, staring at two men, one stringy and weaselly looking, the other almost kind-looking except for something dark about his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I got lost,” Sam lied. He noticed another door behind the men that was cracked, with a reddish light coming from inside.

“Well, get out of here, kid,” the stringy guy said.

“Or we’ll rip the flesh off your bones,” the other said. Sam gaped for a moment, giving the pudgier man time to step close and wrap his hand around his neck. “Little vermin like you don’t deserve to live.”

Sam twisted out of his grip with a cry, darting out of the room and back down the hall. He scooted under a table, trembling. He heard Dean’s voice—bartering for a slinky, of all things—and crawled free, going up close to Dean and tugging on his sleeve.

“Sam? What are you doing?”

He shook his head, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist. He heard Dean say something to the man he’d been talking to, and then he was picked up.

“Wanna get out of here?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded fervently into Dean’s shoulder. From behind Dean, he saw the skinny man come out of the back, staring at Sam.

“Is it the clowns?” Dean asked, pointing at one of the dressed up men. Sam flinched, burying himself deeper into Dean’s grip. “I’ll take that as a yes,” his brother said drily.

Sam suddenly noticed the other man standing to their left, eyes on Sam. He swallowed back a sob, whispering, “can we leave?”

“Sure, kiddo.”

* * *

It felt like an interrogation. Sam had his knees up to his chest on the bed while Dean sat on the chair facing him.

“So you went into the back . . .” Dean prompted.

“There were some guys. They seemed suspicious.” Sam’s tongue couldn’t curl around the word suspicious correctly, so it came out sounding like ‘suspushus.’ He flushed as Dean chuckled.

“Okay. Think you could recognize them again?”

Sam bit his lip. He didn’t want to go back there. But Dean looked so tired and worn—old, Sam’s mind supplied—and Sam didn’t want to let him down.

“Yeah,” he said, “we can go back.”

Sam still trailed behind Dean on their way in, flinching as the clown noticed him again. Dean was intent on the hunt for the bad person, so thankfully he didn’t notice how Sam was being such a baby.

“I’ll rip out your innards,” the clown promised. There was a jagged knife in his hands. Sam let out a muted cry, clinging to Dean’s jacket.

“Sam, what is it?”

Sam pointed wordlessly at the clown, watching it bare razor-sharp teeth.

“It’s just a clown, Sam. C’mon, show me the place with the lockers.”

“But what about the knife?” Sam whispered.

“What knife?”

Sam bit down on his tongue, shaking his head. “Never mind,” he said, “this way.”

The place wasn’t as scary with Dean behind him. Sam decided he liked hunting, as long as Dean was his partner. He showed Dean the room, pleased in the way Dean patted his head and slipped past him. Sam hovered outside of the room, not quite willing to go in and see the scary men again.

There was a shriek from the room. Sam cried out, suddenly imagining the visceral image of Dean with his chest ripped open and dead on the floor.

“No, Sam, get back!” Dean called. He had his gun trained on the weasel man, who looked at Sam spitefully.

“You think you can come in here and put your kid at danger?” he asked Dean. “I know his fears. And yours.”

A high pitched laughter came from the corner. Sam turned, terror running like ice through his veins as a clown lunged at him.

“Sam, no, don’t run!” There was panic in Dean’s voice, but Sam was too terrified to listen. He darted through the halls of Plucky’s, hearing the clown’s maniacal laughter following him. By going through doorways with the glowing green signs above them, Sam managed to make it outside, the dark cool of night making him shiver, despite the sweat on his brow. He darted through alleys, getting lost in the scary dark.

“Hahahaha!”

Sam yelped as a clown jumped out in front of him. Before he could turn and run, the clown kicked him and sent him sprawling.

The one chasing him came up behind them, laughing with the other clown. Sam cried out, pulling his arms up over his head and curling into a ball.

He called for Dean.

But Dean never came.


	5. Chapter 5

When he finally located his little brother, Dean found him curled up, bruised and with tear-tracks down his face.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered. Sam flinched away from his touch, and Dean swallowed. “Sammy, I’m sorry. Let’s get you fixed up, okay?”

“The clowns,” Sam whimpered. “Gone?”

“Yeah, kiddo. Easy.” It was easy to scoop Sam into his arms. For a nine year-old, he was a small thing. “I had to destroy the bad man’s magic to kill the clowns.”

“You didn’t come,” Sam whispered, “you always promised you would fight away the monsters.”

Dean almost felt angry at his younger self for making promises he couldn’t hope to keep. “I did my best,” he defended. His voice sounded juvenile in its sullenness, and he winced.

Sam didn’t respond, breathing tight and shallow. Dean hustled to the car, sliding in and driving away. Small hands shoved away his when he tried to help, leaving Dean to back up and get into the driver’s seat. He suddenly missed Sam with a powerful wave that ached. Not the kid Sam in his back seat, but his Sam. His Sam would’ve stayed with him and watched his back, clowns or no. Dean might’ve even been able to joke about it afterwards, and get a wry half-smile out of Sam.

“Gotta get him back,” Dean muttered to himself. The boy in the backseat looked out the window, face puffy with bruises.

There wasn’t much Dean could do for patching Sam up, aside from offering him an ice pack for the worst of his bruises and getting him some pain meds. The misery radiating off the kid made Dean on edge.

“I’ll be back,” he blurted out. The need for alcohol was an itch that had to be scratched, after a hunt like that.

The demented employee hadn’t been lying. He had nearly fulfilled Dean’s greatest fear.

* * *

“Buddy, you might want to get home.” The bartender gazed at him, old eyes creasing with a kindness that should have been beaten out a long time ago.

“M’brother’s there, don’ want him to see me like this,” Dean mumbled. The drink glinted amber in his glass, and he tossed the rest of it back.

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty your brother would like you back there, no matter what.”

The bartender’s smile must’ve killed back in the day. Dean shook his head, gesturing to his glass again. “Fill ‘er up.”

“I’m cutting you off,” she said. “Go home. Sleep it off.”

Dean scowled at the bartender. “Fine,” he muttered.

The floor tilted dangerously underneath him. Somehow Dean managed to get back to the motel, slouching into the room and noting the salt line was intact.

Sam was curled up in the bed farthest by the door. Dean stumbled over to him, noting his stiff posture, pained breaths.

“Sammy,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”

Sam rolled over, blinking up at him. “Dad?” he mumbled.

Dean swallowed back bile. “Sleep, Sam,” he managed to get out. He planted himself on the bed, rubbing a hand across his mouth. The weight of . . . everything . . . it was too much, and Dean had no one to call on. He hadn’t even gone after any of the Leviathans in the past few days. With Bobby gone . . .

Dean pulled out his personal stash of alcohol, and drank himself into oblivion.

* * *

“—ean? Dean, can you hear me?”

Dean groaned, rolling uncoordinatedly.

“Here, take this.”

Pills were placed in his palm by small hands, a glass of water offered as well. Dean downed them, wondering vaguely at how Sam knew what dose to give him.

“You should take a shower.” Sam’s voice was flat. “You stink.”

Dean blinked at him uncertainly. “Sam, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Sam’s complete lack of emotion was unnerving. Dean levered himself out of bed, and Sam took a step back. His young features twisted a little, and then smoothed out again.

“What’s your deal?”

Dean had meant for his voice to be a little softer than that. Sam’s eyes flickered away, and he took another calculated step backwards.

“You should take a shower,” he said. His eyes were everywhere but on Dean. The behavior gave Dean a sense of deja vu, but he couldn’t place why.

“Ready to head out of this terrible town?” he asked.

Sam shrugged, wincing as it pulled at his shoulder. “Okay.”

“Can’t believe you’re so accommodating,” Dean said under his breath.

Sam tilted his head, a habit he had lost as he had gotten older. “Why not?”

Dean nearly laughed, but couldn’t quite get his mouth to turn up. “You fight me over everything.”

Instead of laughing like Dean had thought Sam would, Sam cringed. “Um, I’ll go to the car,” he said quickly. He darted away—as fast as he probably could with his sore body—leaving Dean staring after him. He really needed to relearn his little brother.

* * *

“Why aren’t we stopping at the motel?” Sam asked, staring out the window as they kept on driving. “Wasn’t the hunt here?”

“Just a quick stop before we bunk for the night,” Dean said airily.

Sam watched him suspiciously as they kept on driving. Dean hid a smile, feeling light and carefree in a way that almost seemed . . . familiar. He pulled into the ice cream shop and looked into the rearview mirror just in time to see Sam’s face light up.

“Feel like ice cream?” Dean asked.

In answer, Sam scrambled out of the car. Dean smiled, following.

Sam went straight for the weirdest flavor they had—blueberry—while Dean stuck to his standard—mint chocolate chip.

“Is it good?” Dean asked, eyeing the purple-colored concoction Sam was licking.

“Try.” Sam had never been a selfish kid, and fondness welled up inside of Dean as he tried Sam’s ice cream.

“Tastes like aliens made it,” Dean declared.

“Does not!” Sam cried indignantly.

Dean grinned, going back to his mint, which tasted weird after having the fruit flavor in his mouth.

“How ‘bout after this we go to the movies?” Dean asked suddenly.

Sam watched Dean over his ice cream. “Why are you doing all this stuff?” he said, “you’re hunting, right?”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe I just want a break.”

Sam opened his mouth to speak when Dean’s phone rang. He noted the source—hidden number—and anticipation curled up like fire in his gut.

“Hello? Frank?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam twist his head around, staring behind them. Dean listened to Frank Devereaux while looking behind Sam to see what he was watching. Nothing was there, and Dean mouthed ‘what?’ at Sam, but Sam didn’t even notice.

“No, Frank, yeah, I’m listening. Got it.” Dean snapped the phone closed with a sigh. “Sam, you okay?”

Sam’s eyes snapped back onto them. For a second, Dean thought he saw panic there, but a moment later it was gone. “What was that about?” he asked.

Dean sighed. Might as well come out with it. “There are some real bad monsters out there,” he told Sam, “and we’re trying to get ‘em. These guys, though, they’re pretty unstoppable. That’s why we’ve been taking on smaller hunts that’ve come up. Or at least, that was the plan before you got tiny.”

Sam had reached the cone part of his ice cream. He bit down, the cone crunching under his teeth. Dean took a bite of his own ice cream cone.

Dean jumped as Sam spat, dropping the rest of his cone on the floor, eyes wide.

“Dude, what the—?”

Sam swallowed, staring at Dean. “It, uh, tasted weird,” he said.

“Want another one?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. “No, thanks.”

Dean wondered vaguely where Sam had actually learned his manners. It sure hadn’t been from Dean or their Dad. He opened his mouth to ask when Sam blurted out, “bathroom,” and darted away. Huh. Maybe not the best manners after all.

* * *

“I remember you!”

Dean forced his face to go blank while his mind raced. A lot of towns, a lot of alibis, and no really good way to keep track. Sam was the one with the razor sharp memory for faces and names.

“Well, yeah, figured this one was a reopened case for sure,” Dean said cagily.

“Where’s the partner of yours? The other drummer, right?” The detective chuckled to himself. “I still remember how confused you boys looked. Like you didn’t know who Bonham was.”

Dean forced out a chuckle. “Yeah, he’s on leave. Care if I take a look at the scene, Detective—“

“—Sutton, and yeah, knock yourself out.”

Dean made his escape, feeling the absence of Sam at his shoulder like a missing arm. He stared blankly at the mutilated body and blood-stained van. What would Sam look for? If this was their old case, then . . .

Dean swiped his fingers through a substance on the floor of the van. He sniffed at it cautiously, grimacing at the strong scent. Sulfur. The demon from their old case was back at his old games.

If Sam were here, he might’ve had the next step planned out. As it was, Dean had to make his excuses to the detective and hustle back to their room. Sam had extensive computer files on old cases, and no doubt this was one of them.

Upon reaching the motel, Dean found Sam looking suspiciously guilty.

“What’s going on?” he asked lightly, eyes scanning the room.

“Nothing,” Sam replied instantly.

“Is that right.” Dean didn’t quite let his skepticism leak into his voice. Instead, he casually began cleaning up the room, gradually getting closer to Sam. Dean knew his little brother, and how massive his guilt complex was. Dean’s silence and proximity would be like itching powder for the kid.

“Where were you today?”

Ah, the diversion. Dean smiled privately, shaking out some laundry and throwing it in one corner. Older Sam would’ve given him such a bitch face for that. “Just checked out the crime scene.”

“Oh.”

Sam was practically squirming.

“Something you want to tell me, Sam?” It was a gentle push.

“Dean, I didn’t mean to leave the room, but I was so bored, and I couldn’t figure out all the buttons for the TV, so I went to the library.”

Always such a geek. Dean figured that as a kid, he would’ve been furious at Sam for doing something like that, but somehow he could only feel amusement.

“At least tell me you flirted with the librarian,” Dean said.

“You aren’t mad?” Sam asked tentatively.

“Oh, it was stupid of you to do that, but no. I left you with nothing in here, kid. Shoulda figured you would go stir crazy.”

Sam slumped on the bed, guilt visibly draining away. “Okay,” he murmured.


	6. Chapter 6

No matter what he did, Sam couldn’t make his headache go away, and it was hurting so bad he couldn’t even read.

Dean had left the room again, saying he had to talk to someone about the case, though he wouldn’t even say what the case was about. Sam was stuck in the room with nothing to distract him from the growing pain and frightening things happening at the corner of his vision.

“Aw, am I frightening you? That’s cute.”

Sam had figured out the mean man wasn’t real, but only after embarrassing himself in front of the people in the motel when he ran screaming out to the front office. His excuse was that his brother had put ice in his underwear, when the manager had demanded an explanation.

Now, Sam ignored the man. He had done everything in the journal: salt, silver, even an exorcism had done nothing.

“I’m a part of you, Sammy, don’t you know that? You can pretend you don’t know who I am, but you’ll remember before long. For now, why don’t you think of me as Nick?”

Sam watched him warily, getting back up on the bed and pulling the covers close.

“Would you like me to sing you a lullaby?” Nick asked.

Sam swallowed, staring down at the bed.

A clawed hand settled on his skull, sending cold through his entire body. Sam shoved himself away, toppling out of bed and banging his knee on the floor in the process.

When Sam hit his knee, Nick went away. Sam stared blankly, looking at his knee, and then at the empty room.

“Hello?” he called.

There was no response, and Sam grimaced. No matter what he did, everything was off. He wanted to go back to his Dean and his Dad.

Sam fumbled with the weird phone Dean had given him. It took a couple tries, but he finally managed to type in the password and call Dean.

“Hello?”

“Dean?”

“Sam, is anything wrong?”

“No, I just,“ Sam bit his lip for a moment before continuing, “wanted to see if you were okay. Can I come with you?”

“Sam . . .”

Dean’s tone was the exact same Dad used whenever he was going to say no about something.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Sam said, rushed. “I can stay in the car and be quiet, I promise. Please?”

There was a silence. Sam pulled the phone away from his ear, uncertain if he had accidentally hung up on Dean.

“Alright,” Dean’s tinny voice came through. “Wait there, I’ll pick you up.”

Sam grinned, putting the phone down. He bounced on the bed a little in excitement.

“How cute. I think I might throw up.”

Sam looked at Nick and frowned.

“I mean, it’s pathetic. The only part of your life you care about is your brother. Like he even cares half as much about you.”

Sam thought about his knee, and bit down on his lip again—hard. The man flickered and disappeared.

“Huh,” Sam mumbled. He gently sucked on his bleeding lip in thought. Nick was in his head, but if Sam felt pain, he went away. It didn’t really make sense, but Sam didn’t want to ask Dean. They were finally getting to be brothers again, and he didn’t want to mess that up. He could deal with the scary man. It wasn’t a big deal.

* * *

Dean announced: “These are the rules.”

Sam was good with rules. He nodded, staring at Dean expectantly. Nick lit a blonde woman on fire in the corner of his vision, and Sam flinched.

His brother interjected, “hey, are you listening?”

“Yes,” Sam said quickly, “why?” He ignored the man. The man wasn’t real.

Dean shook his head, huffing under his breath. “Never mind. Look, rules are: no leaving the car, no making noise, and no talking to anyone.”

Sam tilted his head. “Dean, what if I sneeze?”

He smiled, ruffling Sam’s hair. “Smart aleck. Alright, kiddo, you stay here and if you sneeze, I’ll take away your allowance.”

“I don’t have an allowance.”

“I know.” Dean’s smile seemed a little sad to Sam, but he was gone and Sam was left waiting. Again. Sam sighed—noisily, ha, there, Dean—and flopped back against the seat.

A cold chain slithered around Sam’s chest. Sam whimpered, pulling at it unsuccessfully.

“Shh, let me hurt you, darling.” A strong hand encircled Sam’s throat, keeping him pinned to the car seat.

“No!” Sam shouted, writhing against the hold. He banged his foot against the seat in front of him, and then again when it didn’t make Nick go away.

“You can’t avoid me forever,” he warned.

Sam squirmed out of his seat belt and out of the car. He could hear Dean talking with someone in the alley, and ran that way.

“—lucky the demon didn’t want you again,” he heard Dean say.

A scared-sounding person responded. Sam hesitated and then ducked down behind the dumpster. When he peeked out, he saw Dean glaring at him. Sam ducked back down, guilt welling up inside.

There was a strange grunting sound. Sam looked out again and found Dean slumped unconscious on the ground, the tiny guy standing with a needle above him.

Sam nearly shouted, but Nick covered his mouth with one hand.

“Shhh, Sammy, if you shout the bad man will come after you, and then you won’t be able to rescue Dean.”

Sam hesitated, and in that time the guy managed to drag Dean to the side before darting away. Sam nearly stepped out, but then the guy returned with his truck, backing it into the alley and putting Dean in the back seat. Panicked, Sam waited until the man got in the driver’s seat before running forward and jumping up onto the back and into the truck.

Dad had been training Dean to figure out his location by listening and not looking. Sam hadn’t really been interested, but he had sorta paid attention.

It didn’t help now.

Sam kept himself quiet when the truck stopped. He heard the guy messing with Dean in the back, grunting under Dean’s weight.

Sam waited two minutes before he clambered out of the back of the truck, pattering inside as fast as he could.

“Quiet as a mouse,” Nick whispered in Sam’s ear.

Sam stayed behind some shelves, watching wide-eyed as the man set up a weird ring and candles and blood around Dean and another kid—that kid was missing an ear, would he take Dean’s ear too?

“What to do, what to do,” Nick murmured. “No way out of this one, huh?”

The man was chanting, now. Sam slipped off to the side while he was distracted, getting closer and closer to his brother. Once he was close enough, Sam got onto the floor and began crawling.

On Sam’s ninth birthday, he had been given a hunting knife, because he was old enough. He pulled it out now and worked at the ropes quietly.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice was barely audible. Sam didn’t trust himself to speak quietly enough, so he kept his mouth shut and continued to work at the ropes.

“Hey!”

Sam felt himself go flying without anyone laying a hand on him. Dean shouted his name as he landed, concrete floor driving the air out of his lungs.

“Aw, Jeffrey, did you bring me a snack?”

“I don’t know who the brat is, but that’s not the point, c’mon, possess me, you should—“

The man—Jeffrey?—was grasped by the throat and thrown across the room by the boy with the missing ear. Sam watched uncertainly, seeing the kid’s eyes slide into black. “Shh, shh. You can reach your potential without me. I have new prey.” It grinned at Sam.

“Leave him alone!”

The demon ignored Dean’s angry cry and moved faster than Sam could see, picking Sam up by the throat. “Should I possess you, child?”

Sam couldn’t respond as he dangled, scrabbling helplessly against the monster’s grip. He could vaguely hear Dean chanting something, and Nick grinned, coming up close.

“We used to play this game all the time,” he reminisced, “choke and choke and choke but never die.”

Dean shouted something again. Sam felt himself fall; he crumpled to the ground, trying to pull in air through his swollen throat.

It didn’t take long before Sam was being scooped up, into his brother’s arms.

“Easy, Sammy. Just breathe, calm down.”

Sam twisted his hand into Dean’s shirt. “‘urts.”

“I know, kiddo, I know.”

“He never calls you Sammy anymore,” Nick noted. “And he doesn’t have the amulet you gave him, either.”

Sam’s eyes darted to Dean’s chest. His Dean didn’t even take it off to shower.

“He doesn’t love you anymore,” Nick said. “Don’t worry, you’ll see.”

Sam dug his own fingers into the bruises on his neck, and Nick disappeared.

“Hey, Sam, don’t hurt yourself.”

He gazed silently at his older brother. “What was the guy doing?” Sam wheezed.

“Idiot wanted to be repossessed. The son of a—“ Dean cut himself off, glancing down at Sam. “How’d you follow us?”

“I jumped in the truck,” Sam said. He didn’t quite get Dean’s expression, and squinted at him uncertainly. “Should I have done something else?”

“For someone who hated hunting so much, you sure have a strange way of being awesome at it,” Dean muttered.

Nonplussed, Sam blinked at Dean. “I don’t hate hunting.”

“Well, something changed your mind before you got older.” Dean wouldn’t look at him. Sam’s headache began to pound with a vengeance, and he closed his eyes.

* * *

Nick tied him down, and used a sharp knife to carve Sam open, flay him alive. “You were always meant to be this,” he murmured. His hand dipped into Sam’s chest and pulled out one lung. “Don’t forget to swallow.”

Sam woke up choking, unable to breathe. He waited for Dean’s small freckled face to lean over and poke him, whispering something to make Sam laugh, but instead, all he heard was deep breathing from the other bed.

“Dean?” Sam whispered.

“Mgwah,” Dean mumbled into his pillow. “Wha’ S’m?”

Sam swallowed, curling up into a little ball and huddling under the covers. “Nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing.”


	7. Chapter 7

Something was wrong with Sam.

Not that something being wrong with Sam was a new development. Since the kid had run off to Stanford, Dean had always kept an eye open, categorizing different things about his brother that seemed a little off and trying to judge when things were going too far. Someone had to keep the guy in line.

Sam came out of the bathroom rubbing his hair with the threadbare motel towel. He was short enough that he had to jump to get on the motel bed, and Dean bit his lip to keep himself from smiling at the sight. No matter how cute Sam was right now, something was still wrong, and he needed to figure out what it was.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” he asked his little brother.

Sam looked at him. “Isn’t there a hunt?”

Dean shrugged. He had updated recently with Frank, and there was still no news on any new Leviathan activity. With Sam vulnerable, it was best they stayed under the radar anyway. “Not really.”

Sam frowned. “So, then what?”

“I dunno. Maybe Disneyland,” Dean suggested. He flipped open the laptop, pulling up Disneyland for kicks. Man, it was in California. Dean hated California.

“But my Dean wants to go to Disneyland, we can’t go without him,” Sam said.

“Dude, your Dean is long gone. I’m Dean,” he responded absently. Tickets were way past their range, but if he asked Frank for a favor—

The door slammed, and Dean sat up, blinking. Sam was gone, out of the room without a word to Dean about where he was going. The horrible image of a nine-year-old being run over in the parking lot flashed behind Dean’s eyelids, and he bounded up from his seat, striding through the door.

“Sam!” he barked. “Sam, you get back here right now or so help me, I’ll—“

“Dean.”

Dean blinked and turned, finding Sam sitting against the wall. It took three breaths for Dean’s heart rate to get back down to normal levels. “Crap, don’t do that, Sam.”

“I want my Dean.” Sam was red-eyed and his shoulders were hitching. “I want to go back, and I want Dad and Dean. Please. I want my Dean.”

Frustration and pity warred inside of Dean. Pity won, and he dropped down next to Sam with a sigh. “I know, kid.”

“Stop calling me kid!” Sam knuckled his eyes, undermining his vehement statement.

“Alright.” Dean stared out across the parking lot, watching the twilight beginning to take hold. “I know things are different, but if I could do anything I—“

“Why aren’t you my brother anymore?” Big eyes full of tears met Dean’s gaze. “What did I do?”

Dean scrunched up his forehead, making a face. “Do? Sam, you didn’t do anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about, we’re still brothers.”

Sam’s eyes flickered to the left, staring vacantly across the parking lot himself. Dean waited.

“I didn’t mean to,” Sam mumbled nonsensically. He dropped his head onto his knees. “I just want my brother back.”

Dean swallowed his rage at being considered somehow less than Sam’s pretend version of Dean. Like Dean hadn’t been to Hell and back for him, or saved him countless times. This Sam had no memory of that, and it wouldn’t be fair to yell at the kid.

“C’mere.” Some of the anger in Dean eased when Sam didn’t flinch away or resist when Dean pulled him into his arms. “Sam, I know things are scary and different, but you have to trust that I’m going to take care of it, okay?”

Sam didn’t respond. Dean noticed a couple suspicious characters sneaking around at the edge of the parking lot and stood, Sam still in his arms. “Let’s go to bed, huh?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” Sam breathed as Dean set him down on the bed.

Dean asked, “What for?” but received no response as Sam turned his tear-stained face into the pillow. Something was wrong with Sam, and Dean had no answers for him.

Dean needed a drink.

* * *

“Hello? I’m looking for someone.”

The voice was soft, but enough to wake Dean up from his alcohol-induced slumber. It was a repeat to the morning he had woken up and Sam had been small, only this time Dean didn’t say anything.

“Pastor Jim Murphy, I, uh, I don’t know his church’s name, but . . .”

There was a pause, and Sam said, “oh,” in a small, pain-filled voice. “Okay, thank you.”

The silence was longer this time, broken up by small beeping noises.

“Hi, is this information in Sioux Falls?”

The person on the other end apparently made an affirmative answer, and Sam’s voice became a little more animated.

“I’m looking for my uncle, Bobby. Bobby Singer? He, he runs a, um, car thing. Uh, broken cars. Outside of town?”

Dean pressed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw hard enough to make his teeth ache. The whiskey from last night threatened to make a reappearance. He sat up violently, ignoring Sam’s startled wet eyes and moving straight into the bathroom. He splashed water on his face and didn’t look at his reflection—he didn’t need to see himself the mirror to know what he was.

There was a tentative knock on the bathroom door.

“Dean?”

“What is it?” Dean said gruffly.

“You heard me?”

“Yeah.”

Sam hesitated, and then plunged onward. “Is it true?”

“Yes,” Dean answered shortly.

He heard the hinges squeak; suddenly Sam was clinging to his waist, soaking Dean’s shirt with tears. Dean had to force himself to swallow the ache in his throat. He dropped a hand onto Sam’s head, petting the unruly strands as Sam.

“Everyone’s gone,” Sam whispered.

“‘cept for us,” Dean offered lamely.

Sam lifted his face to look up at Dean. His little brother offered a smile, and however tempting it was for Dean to want to feel bitter at Sam for dragging up old and new losses, he couldn’t.

“Let’s go get breakfast, Sam.”

* * *

After taking three bites of pancakes, Sam set his fork down in a deliberate motion. Dean didn’t pay attention, focusing on his cup of coffee.

“Do you drink because everyone’s dead?”

Dean spat out his coffee, drowning his eggs. He gaped at Sam. “What the hell, Sam?” he barked. “Why would you say something like that?”

Calm eyes watched him carefully. “That’s why Dad used to drink. Because Mom was gone.”

The nausea he thought was gone bubbled up again. Dean suddenly felt like strangling the kid sitting across from him in the booth.

“No,” he said shortly. “I drink because I’ve had to put up with your crap for so long.”

Dean had meant it—sort of—as a joke. His Sam would’ve gotten it, he thought, but this Sam looked shocked and hurt.

“I’m done,” Sam whispered, pushing his plate away.

Dean was so tired of feeling guilty, but it seemed like the guilt would never go away. “Sam, I was just kidding. Look, I’m sorry. Drinking helps . . . it helps dull things, make it easier for me to deal with stuff. It’s not you.”

“Yeah, okay.” Sam didn’t pick up his fork again, no matter how much Dean tried to joke and wheedle him into eating.

* * *

In a desperate attempt to get Sam’s mood to lighten, Dean took him out on a walk around the small town.

“There’s a playground,” Dean noted. He managed to catch Sam’s momentary gleam of interest, and smiled. “C’mon.” Dean tugged Sam along, nudging him once they reached the edge. “Swings are your favorite.”

Sam set off on his own, ignoring a few of the other kids and settling on the swing.

Dean found a nice bench and pulled out Sam’s smart phone to mess around and maybe find a hunt or some Leviathans. At this point, he needed any kind of distraction he could get.

“Is that your kid?”

Dean glanced up, face automatically smoothing into a slightly seductive smile. Hot single moms could be fun. And then Dean thought of Lisa and faltered, but the woman was already sitting down on the bench, brushing unruly red curls out of her face. “The one on the swings?” she continued.

“Yeah, that’s my—“ Dean swallowed ‘brother’ and supplied, “son.”

“He’s so cute,” she gushed. “How old is he?”

“Nine.”

“My little girl’s seven.” The woman pointed her out on the slide. Dean nodded, most of his attention on the woman’s bust. Not that he was a sleaze, mostly; he was simply appreciative. “Is he depressed?”

Dean blinked, thrown. “Huh?”

The woman blushed to the tips of her ears. “Sorry, it’s not my place, really, I just work with some troubled kids, and your son seemed to exhibit some of those signs.”

The conversation from the morning was too fresh in Dean’s mind. He pressed out a fake smile. “We’ve had some loss, recently. He’s coping.”

The woman did have a pretty smile. She rested her hand on Dean’s forearm for a moment. Dean braced himself for meaningless platitudes, but she let the silence extend in a way that was comfortable instead of awkward.

“Are you from the area?” she asked after a while.

Dean grimaced. She had turned out to be too thoughtful and sensitive for him to play up and get some. “We’re just passing through,” he said. “We’ll head out tomorrow.”

“You two look like you could use a good dinner. I’m making spaghetti and meatballs tonight. Would your boy like that?”

Dean stared at her, checking. He casually slipped his hand into his pocket and unscrewed the bottle of borax, letting the liquid coat his fingers. “That’d be great,” he said, “I’m Dean.”

“Vicky.” She shook his hand, making a face at his sticky chemical-soaked fingers, but not reacting like a Leviathan.

“Sorry, think Sam left a juice bottle in my coat pocket,” Dean lied easily.

Vicky pulled out wet wipes with a grin. “I have a five year old, I come prepared,” she said.

“No!”

The sharp cry turned both of their heads, and Dean started up at the sight of Sam cowering against the play-set and sprinted over to him.

“Sam!” He skidded to a stop on the rubber ground of the playground, dropping to one knee next to his brother. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Sam didn’t say anything, forcing Dean to skim his hands over Sam to check for injuries.

“What happened?” he asked again, voice a little softer.

“Fell.” Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Sorry.”

Dean frowned. “Don’t apologize,” he said shortly. “C’mon, up you get.”

“Is everything okay?”

Sam flinched away from Vicky, and Dean automatically put his body between Sam and her.

“We’re fine,” he said, placatingly. “Just a fall.”

Vicky reached out with a well-meaning hand, and it hurt Dean to see how confused Sam seemed by the gesture. Sam had never known a mother’s touch.

“You want spaghetti, sweetie?” she asked.

Sam looked to Dean uncertainly.

“Vicky’s offered us free dinner. That sounds good, huh?” he prompted.

“Yes ma’am, thank you,” Sam said, ducking his head. Dean laughed under his breath. What a polite little dork.


	8. Chapter 8

If there was one thing Sam didn’t know how to handle, it was women. He was trying to watch Dean and the woman at the same time, gauging whether she was a witness, or something else. Dean hadn’t mentioned a case, nor did he have any reason to be hanging out with her. Unless he wanted another girlfriend. Even at thirteen, Dean was already liking the attention from girls and kissing, instead of being grossed out from cooties like Sam. It didn’t make sense to him. Older Dean was probably interested in kissing Ms. Vicky like younger Dean was with Katie from school.

“Why don’t y’all come over now?” Vicky suggested. “Lauren, c’mon baby, let’s go home!”

Sam shrank back even more as a cheerful little girl came skipping up. “Mommy, I want to stay longer!”

“We have some guests, would you like to take them home and have dinner? We can have cookies after.”

“Yes!” The girl took her mother’s hand automatically. Dean coughed discreetly, and Sam took the hint; putting his hand in Dean’s was weird, but kinda comforting. Sam had to resist the urge to cling too tightly as Nick walked on Sam’s other side, hand resting on his shoulder.

“One happy family,” he murmured. “Just as it should be, eh, Sam?”

“You okay, Sam?”

Sam glanced up at Dean. “What?”

“You’re shaking.”

Sam swallowed, twisting his hand a little in Dean’s grip. “Just, um, cold.”

The lie was blatant, what with the warm southern weather; Sam noticed Vicky exchanging a significant glance with Dean.

“What’s your favorite kind of cookie, Sam?” Vicky asked.

“Chocolate chip,” Sam said. He hadn’t really had another type, unless it was the packed kind from the gas station markets.

Everything was off-kilter at the house. Sam hovered awkwardly behind Dean, while Vicky tried to engage him in conversation. The little girl seemed focused on her own toys, thankfully, since Sam wouldn’t know what to do with her.

“What’s your favorite color, Sam?”

Was it a trick question? Sam pinched the edge of Dean’s jacket between two fingers, just for a stable anchor.

“I like red,” Nick murmured. “Blood red.”

“Red,” Sam muttered.

“Really?” Vicky said.

Sam swallowed, looking at Nick, who gave him an encouraging smile.

“Lauren, why don’t you show Sam your Legos?”

“That’s okay,” Sam said quickly. “May I stay here?”

“Sure thing.”

Vicky turned away to go to the kitchen, and Dean pivoted, dropping to one knee in front of Sam.

“Why don’t you want to play with Lauren?” he asked. “She seems nice.”

The snakes in Lauren’s hair hissed at Sam.

“No, thank you,” Sam whispered.

“You’re being weird, and once we leave we’re talking about this,” Dean warned.

“Weird, freak, monster, he’s called you them all,” Nick murmured, suddenly behind Sam again. “He locked you up one time for it.”

The room flickered into some place different—a metal room, handcuffs cutting into his wrists, heat blazing, never-ending pain—and then Vicky bustled back in, bringing in drinks.

Sam saw a beautiful girl laughing, and then screaming in pain as fire blossomed around her on the ceiling above Lauren.

“Bathroom,” Sam managed to say before he darted down the hall to hide.

“It’s so cute, how you don’t remember things,” Nick observed.

“Go away,” Sam sobbed. He pressed his fingernails into his palm, the skin indenting and turning white.

“You think that little trick will get rid of me?” Nick snarled. He suddenly expanded, filling the bathroom with white light that burned cold. Sam cried out, and struck the sharp edge of the counter with his hand.

The corner was unforgiving—Sam yelped, feeling the familiar pain of a deep cut. He whimpered, pulling his hand close, but it was better, Nick was gone.

The bathroom door flew open with a bang, and Dean was there, wide-eyed and still older. Sam choked on the desire for his Dean, cradling his hurt hand.

“What happened?”

“I hit my hand by accident,” Sam lied.

Dean glanced cursorily at the bloodied edge of the sink before gently pulling Sam’s hand onto Dean’s. “Not too deep to need stitches,” he murmured.

“Oh, goodness! Do we need to call 911?”

Dean stood, blocking Sam from Vicky’s view. “No, we’ll take care of it. Do you have some first aid supplies?”

Vicky fluttered away, leaving Sam alone with Dean.

“Are you . . . are you mad?” Sam whispered.

“Why would I be mad, bud?” Dean prompted Sam to stand, pulling his arm over to the faucet and running water over the cut. Sam winced at the sting, but didn’t pull his hand away.

“You’re just . . . mad at a lot of stuff,” Sam said. “Are you mad at me, too?”

Dean shook his head, and finally met Sam’s gaze; Sam realized he had it wrong—Dean may have been mad, but mostly he was sad. Sad and mad.

“Those rhyme.”

“What rhymes?” Dean murmured. He carefully dried off Sam’s hand.

Sam shook his head, not answering. Vicky returned with the first aid kit, and Dean wrapped up Sam’s hand.

“Keep that dry, Sam.”

“Yes sir.”

The response slipped out of Sam without him meaning to say it. He saw Dean stiffen, something passing across his eyes darkly. A completely fake smile was pasted on Dean’s face. “Let’s go eat some dinner, okay?”

“Okay.” Sam trailed Dean out into the living room.

Lauren looked up at him curiously. Sam watched her eyes begin to bleed, but since Dean and her mom didn’t say anything, he figured it was all in his head. She said something to her mother and ran off down the hall.

The doorbell rang. Sam and Dean both turned. An older boy Sam didn’t know—thin, brown hair, and questioning eyes—leaned against the wall, crossing his arms across a bloody torso.

“Better me than Nick, right?”

Sam felt an unaccountable urge to apologize, though he didn’t know why; instead, he pinched his bandaged hand, just a little.

“I’d forgotten, the air conditioning guys were coming over to fix the system,” Vicky apologized, “but they won’t bother us.”

“You need some help setting up for dinner?” Dean asked.

“Sure.”

They moved into the kitchen, leaving Sam standing. The door open, and he flinched back, staring wide-eyed at the two men who came inside.

“How many handymen still wear overalls, nowadays?” the boy—Adam, Sam suddenly remembered his name—commented.

Sam took a second look at the two men, at the slightly jerky way they walked and the strange twitching in their eyes.

One of them caught sight of Sam.

Sam gave into his instincts. “Dean!” he yelled.

Dean seemed to sum up the situation in one moment, placing himself in front of Sam and putting his hand back where Sam knew he kept his blade.

“Sam?” he checked.

Sam looped a finger in the back of Dean’s belt, peering out at the men. “Something’s wrong with them,” he whispered. Adam walked around to stand next to Sam, sad eyes staring at Sam.

One of the handymen tilted its head. “When we tracked the infamous Sam and Dean, we weren’t expecting a kid,” he said.

“I hope you were expecting your own death,” Dean said coolly.

Vicky peered out. “Wha—“

“Stay in the kitchen!” Dean shouted at her. She scurried back, smart enough to listen to Sam’s older brother.

“Kids are so much juicier.” The other one crept forward. His jaw expanded, razor sharp teeth revealed, eyes only on Sam.

“You can’t have him,” Dean snarled.

For the first time since Sam had woken up in the future, he felt safe. The one on their left darted forward, and in one sinuous motion, Dean drew out his knife and lopped off its head. Sam gaped at the black liquid that spewed from its neck.

“Take this!” Dean shouted at him, passing Sam the head. Sam swallowed back his urge to vomit and held it gingerly as Dean took care of the other one.

The silence only lasted a moment. When Vicky came back into the doorway, she shrieked.

“What is going on?”

“Monsters,” Dean said shortly. His eyes were on Sam. “Sam, are you okay?”

Adam sighed. “I never got to see you as a kid. It would’ve been fun, growing up together, right? We could’ve been best friends.”

Sam gazed into his hazel eyes, unable to look away. He wanted to apologize.

“I never wanted to be this way,” Adam said. “I wanted to be a doctor, I think. Never got the chance to find out.” He lifted one hand, gazing at the exposed bone. “Carpals, metacarpals, phalanges.”

“—am, Sam, c’mon.”

The head was pried out of Sam’s hands. He blinked at Dean. “What?”

“Spacing out on me there, kiddo.” The skin around Dean’s eyes had deep wrinkles whenever he was worried. “C’mon, we’ve overstayed our welcome. Let’s get rid of the bodies.”

Sam followed Dean’s orders, feeling disconnected and strange. Somehow they ended up in the car, then out in an empty field, dumping the bodies, then back in the car.

“How’d you know?”

Sam swung his head around to look at Dean uncertainly. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“How did you know they were Leviathans?”

Leviathans. Sam stored the name away to look up later. “They moved differently,” he said. And Adam—“ Sam snapped his mouth shut, but it was too late; Dean’s relaxed posture had tightened up considerably.

“Adam?” Dean asked, mock-casual. “Who’s Adam?”

“O-one of the monsters,” Sam stuttered, “he had a name tag on.”

“Is that right.” Dean didn’t relax at all, so neither did Sam. “What about Adam?”

“He, um, he, his teeth were weird. I mean, uh, sharp. That’s why I called you.”

It was weak, and Sam knew it. Dean’s own teeth were bared in an attempt at a smile before they drove on in silence.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Nick sang from the backseat.


	9. Chapter 9

“You hungry?”

Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, he saw Sam twitch a little. Other than that, his question went unacknowledged.

“Sam,” he said, a little louder.

This time, Sam turned to him. “What?”

“I asked, are you hungry?”

Sam shook his head. Dean realized absently that he had stopped enforcing Sam’s position in the backseat. “What’s on your mind?” Dean tried. Sam had slipped in the misadventure with the Leviathans, mentioning Adam. Dean wasn’t stupid enough to buy his story that it was the Leviathan’s name. No, somehow Sam had learned about Adam, of all people, and Dean would ferret it out of Sam. He would have to ease into it.

“N-not much. Just . . . um, n-nothing.”

Sam had never been a stuttering kid. Dean narrowed his eyes at the road. “Did the Leviathans freak you out?” he ventured.

“No, they weren’t as scary as the clowns.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, I know how much Ronald McDonald gets to you.”

Instead of laughing with him, Sam scooted away from Dean, as close to the window as he could get. “Are we going to stop soon?” he asked in a small voice.

“We can if you want.”

With that, Sam turned his head away, effectively ending the conversation. Dean scowled, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. It had been almost two weeks since Sam had been turned into a kid. If the spell was as weak as the witch had claimed, why hadn’t he turned back yet?

They had been trailing their way down south, and Dean huffed as he stepped out into the boggy humidity. In one very tiny, minuscule and minor way, it was a good thing they didn’t have the Impala; no air conditioning meant summers driving through the south were usually an exercise in torture. At least this crap car had a decent a/c. Dean stripped off his flannel over-shirt, noticing Sam watching him and then mimicking his action. He had forgotten how much Sam liked to copy him back when he was younger.

“Maybe we should go to the beach once we hit Savannah, huh?” Dean suggested.

Sam nodded, curls already dripping with sweat.

“You want to go to the bathroom, or—“

Sam scurried off. The rest stop was a little nicer than usual; they must have just crossed the border into Georgia. States always tried to show off with the first set of bathrooms on the highway, then let the rest fall into disrepair. Dean leaned back against the car, feeling his shirt stick disgustingly to his back as he did.

And waited.

And continued waiting.

Dean frowned at the rest stop. Sam could be a girl about some things, but even he didn’t need ten minutes in the bathroom. He peeled himself off the car, trotting into the restroom.

“Sam,” he called out, “C’mon, kid, you ready to go?”

A whimper from a stall at the end put Dean on instant alert. He approached carefully, knocking open the stall with a well-placed kick. Sam was wedged in the corner between the grimy toilet and wall.

“Sam?” Dean asked, modulating his voice to sound a little softer. “Are you okay?”

Sam lifted his head, red-rimmed eyes meeting Dean’s. “I—I thought I heard a monster,” he whispered.

“Easy kiddo.” Dean pried him out of the corner, tilting his head up. “How ‘bout next time I come with you?”

For one of the first times since Sam had been turned into a kid, Dean felt like he had said the exact right thing. The relieved slump of Sam’s shoulders, his eyes clearing up, the small smile—Dean felt like a million bucks for one brilliant moment.

“You see any monsters, just let me know,” Dean promised rashly, “I’ll kick their butts.”

Sam giggled.

* * *

The case in Savannah was pretty research-intensive—old Civil War-age ghosts tended to be finicky like that. Sam was a brilliant kid, sure, but he couldn’t do much to help Dean. Dean’s Sam would’ve loved this hunt.

The two of them spent most of the day in the library, Dean skimming the historical records while Sam amused himself with whatever books caught his eye. The second day, Dean left Sam in the motel while he ran around doing interviews. He felt bad, leaving Sam alone, so he dropped by a bookstore on his way back, picking up a few he had seen Sam skimming in the library.

“Call me Santa Claus because I—“

The room was dark and silent. Dean’s heart rate jumped immediately. “Sam!” he called out. The bathroom and closet were empty, and panic began to set in.

Dean pulled out his cell phone, but vibration from the motel table killed that option.

“If you’re in the library, I’m going to kill you,” Dean promised darkly. He strode outside of the room, getting back into the car. He nearly side-swiped a parked car in his hurry, finally pulling up to the library.

The place was about to close, but Dean claimed he had left his wallet somewhere and was let in reluctantly by the janitor. Dean wasn’t able to yell Sam’s name, but he did prowl the stacks swiftly, jogging up and down the aisles. He combed the entire library, but there was no sign of Sam.

Dean was kicked out by the janitor after an hour, leaving him standing next to the car with nothing. He had his phone out and his finger hovering over Bobby’s number before he even thought about it.

No help. No one to turn to. Dean couldn’t decide whether he wanted to scream or throw up or kill something.

Dean scanned the streets for hours, driving and walking. He stopped anyone who looked even remotely alert, giving a succinct description of Sam—he would kill for a photograph right now—and receiving no positive responses. The dim streets of Savannah had nothing to offer Dean, the mix of historical old buildings and ghetto giving Dean a mix of people refusing to meet his eyes, and junkies trying to steal some cash from Dean’s pockets.

By two in the morning, Dean was completely lost. He went back to the motel, pulling up maps of Savannah, the missing persons list of the county, anything that could be remotely related to Sam’s disappearance. He didn’t even quite realize once morning had hit, the weak light piercing the holes of the motel curtain his first alert.

Dean forced himself into a semblance of professional appearance before going straight to the motel front office.

“Do you have security cameras?” he asked without preamble.

The attendant looked up from her computer, frowning. “What? What’s it to you?”

Dean flipped open an ID—he wasn’t even sure what it was this time, FBI, police, or health inspector, it didn’t matter—and pressed out a tight smile. “Looking into a missing persons case. Care to help me out, darlin’?”

Most strangers couldn’t tell the difference between Dean’s real smiles and his fake ones. Only Sam was good at that. The woman melted a little, nodding agreeably and closing out of her computer.

“Right here in the back.” She guided him into the back office, booting up an ancient-looking system. Dean hid a grimace, leaning forward to stare at the grainy footage.

“I keep telling the boss to update, but he hasn’t yet. What time do you think your person went missing?”

“Yesterday, mid-afternoon to evening.”

The woman obligingly opened up to the right time, leaving Dean to stare dully at the indistinguishable images. Eventually she left, muttering something about manning the front desk.

At about 4:00pm, Dean saw Sam.

The image was too far away for Dean to tell what was going on, but it was definitely Sam leaving their room. Dean pressed up to the screen, close enough that his breath fogged the surface. Nothing he could see gave him any indication of where Sam went—at least it was on his own power.

Sam was so tiny.

“Did you want some water?”

The attendant’s cheerful voice broke through Dean’s concentration.

“No, thank you,” he said gruffly. “I think I have what I need.”

* * *

“Sheriff Mills.”

“Jody.” Dean’s voice was barely a croak, and he coughed in an attempt to clear his throat. “This is Dean Winchester.”

“Dean? What’s wrong?” The question was sharp and to the point. Dean felt his eyes burn without warning, and he forced himself to take a breath.

“It’s Sam. He’s missing.”

Jody swore, echoing Dean’s feelings exactly.

“Has he been taken? Do you know how he—“

“Listen, Jody, this is going to sound insane, but I need you to go on faith with me for this one,” Dean interrupted her.

“When is that not the case,” Jody said drily. “Fine, shoot.”

“I need you to put out a missing persons on a nine year old boy. Skinny, with shaggy brown hair, hazel eyes, about four feet and three inches tall.”

“Dean,” Jody drew out his name. “Are you saying that Sam—“

“Yeah, he’s a midget right now. Spell gone wrong.”

“My brain hurts,” Jody muttered. “Where are you right now?”

“Savannah, Georgia.”

“Do you want me to come down? I could—“

“No, we’re in hot water as it is,” Dean said. “Please, just make the call.”

“Will do. You call me if something comes up.”

“Sure thing, Jody. Make sure our names don’t come up, please.”

“You got it.”

Dean disconnected the call, staring blankly at the phone for a moment. He had played his last card, and now? Now, he had nothing.


	10. Chapter 10

“Sam, keep up."

“Sorry, Dean.” Sam jogged behind his brother.

“I swear, it’s like wearing a ball and chain every day of my life.”

Dean’s mutter was just loud enough for Sam to hear it. He winced. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“Do you ever stop asking questions?”

Sam ducked his head, swiping away an errant tear. He was grown-up. He wasn’t a cry-baby.

“We’ll wait here.”

Sam glanced around the alley uncertainly. “Here? What’s here?”

Dean turned to look at him, green eyes intense on Sam’s. “We’re waiting for the moon to come out.”

Sam glanced up at the overcast sky. “I don’t think that’ll happen,” he pointed out.

“You’ve been cowering behind this facade for too long,” Dean said. “Tonight, when the moon rises, you’re going to turn back.”

Sam stared up at him. “Really? How did you find out?”

“It was staring us in the face this whole time.” Dean squatted next to Sam, taking his chin into his hand so that Sam was staring right at him. “You’ve been doing this to yourself.”

“What?” Sam whispered. “But how?”

“You’ve been tainted since birth, kiddo. You have demonic powers. C’mon, a wimpy spell that the witch cooked up wouldn’t do this, you’re smart enough to know that.”

Sam couldn’t look away from Dean’s eyes. “I did this?”

“Yeah.” Dean patted Sam’s cheek. “So you’re going to put it right.”

Sam swallowed, watching as Dean stood. “How?”

“You’re going to have to man up for once in your life and do it,” Dean said. “You read that paper last night, right?”

“Yeah.”

“The black-eyed man they mentioned. The one who hangs around this area. He’s the one you want. You looked it up, remember?”

Sam’s head was hurting. “I don’t understand.”

Dean folded his arms across his chest. “Really?” he challenged, “tell me you haven’t been remembering, that you don’t remember what you’ve done, what you’ve become. The least you could do is change back so I can have some solid back-up on a hunt, rather than the pathetic runt you are right now.”

It was hard, trying to keep himself from crying. Sam turned his face away, blinking rapidly. The sky rumbled, and Sam almost hoped it would rain. It was hard to tell if someone was crying through rain.

Out of the shadows in the alley, Sam heard the growls and screeches of unmentionable creatures, ones that would burrow under his skin and rip out his soul. He looked at Dean, but his brother seemed supremely bored, gazing out across the street.

“C-can we go inside?” Sam stuttered. He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling rain begin to fall on the back of his neck.

“No.”

Sam wasn’t sure how long they stood there, only by the end of it, Sam was huddled on the ground, unable to stop shaking.

“Alright, Sam. Now.”

“Wh-what?”

Dean looked down on him scornfully. “The moon is right. Turn back.”

“How d-do I do that?”

Dean pointed, and Sam saw the man.

“Who’s that?”

“Can’t you smell it?” Dean bent down, pressing one heavy hand into Sam’s shoulder. “You can, can’t you? The blood. Calling to you. All you have to do is drink it, and you won’t be weak like you are right now.”

“Drink his blood?” Sam said, horrified. “I can’t do that.”

“You’ve done it before,” Dean said casually. “Don’t see why it’s a problem now.”

“I—“ Sam blinked, noticing for the first time how cruel Dean’s face looked. “I don’t want to.”

Dean shoved Sam into the brick wall, strong hand digging into his shoulder. “Yeah? Why don’t you think about what I want? I’m only the one who watched over you your entire life, took care of you, sacrificed everything for you.”

Sam squirmed under his grip. “Dean, you’re hurting me.”

“Toughen up, kid.” Dean’s other hand came up to grip Sam’s bangs, yanking his head back so the rain fell directly on his face. “I’ve had enough of your whining. Now you go attack that demon, or I’ll leave you, you hear me?”

Sam bit down on the sob that tried to escape, stumbling as Dean pushed him forward. He stared uncertainly at the man across the street. There was . . . something different about him. Sam started forward, ignoring the blaring horns as he crossed the road. In a trance, he went up to the demon.

“Beat it. You’re not my concern,” it muttered.

Sam stayed in front of it, swaying slightly from the cold. The smell—he could remember how it went. How good it made him feel. Like he was strong, like nothing could ever hurt him.

He also remembered everything else though. Sam remembered the iron walls, the screaming pain, Dean’s voice—vampire, monster, freak—and he couldn’t do that again. He wouldn’t.

“What did I tell you,” the demon snarled. Its arm—delicious blood running through its veins, just below the surface, if Sam bit now—shoved across Sam’s chest, pushing him into the wall just like Dean had. “If you don’t run, I’ll rip your heart out.”

Sam said something in a different language. He didn’t know what it was, but it was there on his tongue, and the demon shuddered, dropping its arm.

“What—how did you . . .”

More smooth and awful words dripped off Sam’s tongue. The demon cowered in front of him as Sam watched. Out of instinct, he raised his hand, and the demon screeched in pain.

“That’s it, Sam,” Dean urged, suddenly next to him. “Finish it off. Drink its blood. You can finally be strong.”

“Sam.” A woman Sam didn’t know knelt by his side. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Stay out of this,” Dean snarled.

Caught between the two of them, Sam hesitated. The demon crawled backwards, pleading for mercy.

“Sam, my love.” A gentle hand touched his face. “You’re better than this.”

“Don’t listen to her!” Dean yelled. Sam looked up into his eyes and gasped at the flash of black in them.

He set off running, and the demon didn’t follow. From across the street, Dean yelled, but Sam ignored him. Eventually his legs began to tremble from exhaustion and cold, so Sam ducked down next to an apartment building, huddling underneath the shelter provided by the overhang.

“You were never good enough.” A sad man in a trench coat squatted next to Sam. His blue eyes focused on Sam. “No matter what you did. You should’ve left a long time ago.”

“What did I do?” Sam whispered, “to make Dean so angry?”

“Do you want to remember?” The man asked, voice deep. He cocked his head. “It will be unpleasant and difficult.”

Sam’s friend Derrick had told Sam the history test would unpleasant and difficult. He had been lying, the test had been easy. Sam hoped this man was lying too.

“Just tell me,” Sam said.

The man reached out his hand, and Sam got a terrified flash—wall falling, cage overcoming his mind—and then his fingertips touched Sam’s forehead, and Sam was lost.

* * *

“—am. Sammy, c’mon, kid, please, wake up. I can’t take you to the hospital, you gotta wake up and be okay.”

Sam didn’t have the energy to respond to Dean’s plea. He felt drained, but also warm. Safe. He managed to wiggle one finger into something soft.

“That’s it, Sammy, just open your eyes for me, huh?”

“You could at least do something as simple as that,” Adam said reproachfully. “It is Dean asking, you know.”

Sam pried open his eyes, blinking at Dean’s face up close. “D’n,” he slurred. His voice was hoarse and sore. “Wha—“

“You were hypothermic, and you’re getting sick,” Dean said softly. “I want you to get well, okay? That’s all.”

A hand supported Sam’s head, another offering a cup of water. Sam took a sip before trying to speak again.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to whisper. “Dean, I’m sorry.“

“Shhh, shh, none of that matters. I know you’re sorry for leaving. You get better.”

“No, Dean.” Sam felt something wet in his eyes, but he didn’t have enough strength to brush it away. “Dean, I’m sorry, for everything. Betraying you, lying to you, the apocalypse, letting you get turned into a vampire, and—“

“Whoa, Sam. Sam, how did you . . . never mind that, Sam, don’t apologize.”

Dean didn’t want apologies. He hated Sam, he would never want to see him again. Sam might as well die right now, since—

“Sam, Sammy.”

At his name, Sam managed to open his eyes again. Dean’s face was close, freckles just as familiar as his Dean’s were. Something was shining in his eyes. Tears? “None of that was your fault, Sam, okay? There’s nothing to forgive. I want you to do something for me, will you do this?”

“Here it comes,” Adam murmured. “He’s going to ask you to leave.”

“I want you to really listen. I know things have been awful for a really long time, but the only thing that’s kept me going is you, bitch. If it weren’t for you, I’d’ve . . .” Dean’s face went distant for a second before refocusing. “I would have gone to a really bad place.”

Sam swallowed painfully. “But you did,” he whispered, “you went to hell for me.”

“My choice, Sammy. Not yours.”

Sam shivered violently. Dean pulled him close, letting Sam’s head rest in the crook of his neck and drawing the covers around both of them.

“Do you remember everything?” Sam heard Dean ask quietly.

“All foggy,” Sam mumbled. “Cage’s the brightest.”

He felt Dean shudder. “I had hoped you would be free from that,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“S’alright,” Sam managed to get out. His throat felt sore and he was tired. “S’th’ way it’s s’pposed t’be.”

He thought Dean said something, but everything was too cold and exhausting, and Sam slipped back into his nightmares.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean didn’t trust in luck. Hadn’t for a long since, far beyond Bobby’s death or Sam’s wall falling or the apocalypse. Nor did he trust in fate or God.

Still: one random person taking the time to call 911 about a kid they’d seen running through the streets late at night, Dean managing to take that lead and find Sam, Sam lying on the ground in the dark, hypothermic but not dead . . . Dean was willing to put a little trust in something out there, even if he didn’t know what it was.

“Easy, Sammy, take this,” he crooned. Sam squirmed a little as Dean pried his mouth open. He coaxed some liquid Tylenol and juice down his throat, enough that he hoped Sam’s fever would drop below 102 degrees.

A jumble of incomprehensible syllables was Sam’s only response. He wiped Sam’s face with a damp washcloth, feeling useless.

“I swear, I’ll eat crow for a whole month if you get better and start making fun of me.” It was difficult to swallow past the lump in his throat as Dean heard Sam whisper his name and turn towards his touch. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

The night passed in a blur of taking temperatures, plying Sam with medication every four hours, and a few desperate prayers on Dean’s part. Jody called once, but Dean couldn’t remember what she had said to him or what he told her.

Only when Sam’s fever finally broke did Dean allow himself to fall asleep, one hand resting on Sam to monitor his temperature.

* * *

“Good, temperature’s down,” Dean said gruffly. In the light of day, his freak out over Sam and subsequent tearful confession seemed embarrassing enough. Sam watched him with large, drowsy eyes, tracking his progress across the room.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Motel in Savannah,” Dean responded. “Brought you back after I found you. You nearly made it out of the city, y’know.”

Sam’s face was screwed up in confusion. “I don’t . . . I dunno.”

“You’ve been kind of out of it.” Dean’s fingers were trembling, a little. Man, he needed a drink.

“Do you still want me . . .” Sam bit off whatever he was about to say, forcing Dean to look up and meet his eyes.

“What, Sammy?”

“To, uh, to be stronger,” Sam clarified. “Drink demon blood.”

Dean felt lightheaded. “Sam. You . . . no. No, no, no, no, never, Sam, not that.”

Sam slumped back against the pillows, face drawn. “But you said. Before. You wanted me to.”

Something clicked, horribly, for Dean.

“Sam,” he asked softly. “Do you see people who aren’t really there?”

Sam’s quick glance to his left told Dean everything he needed to know. His gut twisted uncomfortably and saliva flooded his mouth, threatening vomit if he didn’t control himself.

“Nick isn’t very nice,” Sam said.

He wheeled around and went straight out the door of the motel, barely managing to turn to the right and throw up in the bushes outside, rather than directly on the doorstep.

“Dean?”

Sam stood wrapped in his blanket behind Dean, still looking weak and small. Dean could almost pretend it was twenty years ago, that summer Sam had caught the flu and carried a blanket around with him 24/7 until the darn thing fell apart. Only that Sam didn’t have the haunted eyes of this Sam.

“You . . . you’ll be fine, Sammy. Look, whatever you thought I told you before, that wasn’t me, okay? It was a fake me. Just . . . sleep right now, okay? Can you do that for me?” Dean asked.

“Okay, Dean,” Sam said. He turned, blanket dragging on the ground behind him, re-entering the room.

Dean trailed him inside, looking around the motel parking lot suspiciously before shutting the door and scraping the salt line back into place.

“I know how to become big again,” Sam whispered.

“Yeah?” Dean murmured absently, focused on the room’s security.

“I’ve remembered, now,” he said drowsily. “Everybody dies. Just peel back the layers like an orange and see the soul inside.”

Dean was able to wait until Sam shut his eyes completely before going to the bathroom and throwing up for the second time.

* * *

Dean had decided that Sam was still far too weak from his fever, so they couldn’t leave. As a consequence, they were holed up in the room, and neither of them were dealing well with the limits on their freedom.

“I want orange juice, not apple juice!”

Sam’s little face was screwed up and turning an unattractive shade of red.

“Yeah, well, apple is all we have, Sam!” Dean tried to modulate his tone, but no matter what he did, he was sounding eerily like Dad.

“You’re mean and I hate you!”

The blow shouldn’t’ve been unexpected, but it still felt like a punch to the solar plexus; muscles seizing and unable to pull in another breath. Dean made a weird croaking noise, and Sam rolled over from his huddled position on the bed, staring wide-eyed at Dean.

“I didn’t mean it!” Sam frantically shoved his way out of the bed, rising on obviously shaky limbs and wobbling over to Dean. “Dean, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said numbly. “I deserve it anyway.”

Tiny hands cupped his face. “Dean, I didn’t mean it,” Sam whispered. “You’re my brother.”

“Worst brother ever,” Dean muttered.

“Best brother,” Sam corrected him. Dean could feel his hands trembling with exhaustion. He was selfish enough to take the comfort from his little brother, and Dean wrapped his arms around Sam, getting a surprised “oomph” out of the kid as he held him close.

“I am so, so, sorry.” Dean hid his tears in the shoulder of Sam’s overly-large shirt. Sam’s fast little pulse beat comfortingly where Dean could feel it.

“Dean? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean wiped his face, drawing back and looking Sam over. “You need more rest.”

“You can look up the spell while I sleep,” Sam told him. They had talked briefly about using a spell to figure out how to turn Sam back, but Dean wasn’t very keen on the idea.

“Sam, that can wait.”

“It’ll be easy. All we need is to break my psychic bonds to elemate—elinamate—elinina—”

“Don’t hurt yourself, squirt.” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair. “Alright, I’ll do the research, you sleep. Deal?”

“Deal,” Sam promised.

* * *

"You're sure about this, Sam?"

"Sure," Sam said, but he wouldn't meet Dean's gaze.

Dean growled, "I'm not risking you on this."

Sam only rolled his eyes. The sarcastic little— “Dean, it's not even dangerous. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work."

"You say that now," Dean warned. He hesitated. "Are you . . . are you adult right now?"

Sam frowned. "What does that mean?"

"I mean, you have the memories. How much of that means you're my Sam?"

Sam wouldn't look at him. "Does your Sam usually feel scared of the dark?"

He smirked. "I wouldn't put it past him." Dean stopped smiling as Sam slipped off his shirt, lying face down on the bed. The marker in his hands suddenly felt large and unwieldy. "Sam, the spell says this might hurt."

"I'm okay."

Dean swallowed. "I, uh, I think I need a drink."

His little brother's head turned, watching Dean with solemn eyes. "Won't that make your vision worse?"

"Hand won't stop shaking," Dean said shortly. Sure, he usually felt a little guilty when he drank too much, but he had never felt quite as guilty as when he had to take a drink in front of his nine year old brother, who was waiting for him to perform a difficult spell on him.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the amusement park or something before we turn you back?" Dean tried to smile. "Last chance."

"I'm too short for the rides," Sam told him seriously.

"Right."

The marker left a thick black line on Sam’s pale skin. Dean carefully followed the directions they had found online, the swirling patterns difficult, but doable. At least it hadn’t called for them to be painted in blood, like so many rituals did. There was a reason it was called black magic.

“Alright, Sammy, I think we’re ready.”

Sam’s shaggy head nodded up and down. Dean hesitated. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m sorry. For everything.”

“Dean. You don’t have to apologize.” Sam’s too young and too old eyes looked up at him.

“Let’s get this done,” Dean said gruffly.

The spell was one that was supposed to “free physical bonds” and “take true form.” Bunch of hooey, in Dean’s opinion, but it was their only option. Plus, if what Sam had told Dean was right about why he wasn’t changing back, the main thing the ritual should accomplish was letting Sam’s own latent psychic abilities be neutralized. And wasn’t that a terrifying thought?

“Here we go.”

The words—Sumerian? Babylonian? Dean wasn’t sure—fell off his tongue in awkward strings, tangled up. He watched worriedly as the ink melted into Sam’s skin like it had never been there. Dean’s script finished and . . . nothing else happened.

“Sammy? Do you—“

Sam groaned, small body curving in on itself. Dean reached out, curving his palm around Sam’s shoulder.

“Talk to me, buddy.”

“It ‘urts.” Sam twisted over onto his back, sweating and gasping. “Gah.”

“Breathe for me.”

Small hands twisted Dean’s cuffs, strong enough to cut off circulation. Dean felt helpless as tears ran down his little brother’s face.

A blow from nowhere suddenly threw Dean back. He slammed into the motel’s dresser, breath driven from his body.

Sam screamed. Someone from the motel room next to theirs thumped on the wall.

“Sammy!”


	12. Chapter 12

He knew pain. It was woven into his past, into what he became, what he was. Physical pain . . . physical pain was nothing. Even emotional pain had become something normal and expected, over time, as everything he loved was always ripped away from him.

The worst pain was pain of his soul. Delicate claws peeling back the layers of his soul, driving pain into his core.

He wasn’t feeling that pain. Not . . . quite. There was, however, something similar. Joints snapping, insides expanding, his mind being torn open and his careful shields battered down without permission.

Something—someone?—was crying out to him. He focused his energy on keeping them away, they would hurt him more they would—

“Please, Sammy, let me in, let me help you!”

He hesitated. It was a trick. Another way to be hurt, to feel so much pain.

“Sammy, please. I’m your brother, I’m Dean, let me help you.”

Sam faltered, and in doing so he left an opening. The person rushed close. Sam pleaded in the language he had spoken for centuries, using the word that had been his only hope: mercy, mercy, mercy.

“Shh, Sammy, I know it hurts. Don’t fight it, brother, just breathe for me.”

Arms drew him close. Sam struggled weakly, but he had no hope of winning the battle, he never won, the trick would dissolve in a second, and he would be ripped apart once more.

“That’s it. Calm down for me. Hey, you look like a teenager now, think you’ll get some zits on your nose like you used to have?”

Sam paused in his attempts to shore up his defenses. Zits. That wasn’t right. It didn’t make sense. That was . . .

Another wave of pain struck. Sam arched, a scream escaping despite his best efforts.

This time, though, there was a comforting embrace that didn’t disappear.

“Shh, shh, ride it out. C’mon, can’t give up now. You love making all those jokes about how short I am compared to you, how awful would it be if I were the tall one, right?”

It was a risk, but Sam decided it was worth whatever consequence may follow. He dragged one heavy hand across rough denim, curling his weak fingers when he found soft fabric.

“That’s it, Sammy. I’m here, little brother. Want to open your eyes for me?”

Electricity raced up his spine. Sam clamped down on the scream that wanted to emerge, managing to bite down on his tongue instead.

“Crap, Sam.” Strong fingers massaged his jaw, opening it enough to press thick gauze inside. The cottony taste made Sam gag.

“Don’t you dare throw up on me, I will make you do laundry for the next two months.”

Sam felt the wave dissipate, and managed to draw in a couple deep breaths. He realized his eyes were shut, and pried them open long enough to see worried green floating above him.

“Dean,” he sighed.

A huge smile appeared on his brother’s face. “There you are. I was worried maybe your brain wasn’t catching up to your body.”

The physical pain overwhelmed, but this time the inside pain was muted. Sam tried to breathe through it, feeling Dean’s hand on his chest, grounding him.

“If you need to pass out, feel free,” Dean told him. “You still have a while to go before you reach the end of this, I think.”

“Not . . . ‘elping,” Sam managed to grit out.

“Sorry, man. You could—“

Sam lost the rest of what Dean said in another wrench of his soul, something being opened up that wasn’t supposed to be, a crack inside him that felt too much like Lucifer’s familiar touch.

Sam let it swallow him with a whimper.

* * *

He carefully opened his eyes. The room was dim, but there was enough light falling through the curtains for Sam to see Dean lying on the other bed, bottle precariously in his slack hand. Sam swallowed roughly. His entire body felt weak and achey. But—Sam looked down at himself and sighed in relief—he wasn’t a child anymore.

He eased himself out from underneath the blanket, rising on shaky legs. The bathroom had never seemed so far away.

“S’m?”

“Bathroom,” Sam grunted. He felt his cheeks warm at even hearing Dean’s voice. It was embarrassing enough that he had been turned into a child, but the fact that he had been keeping himself a child and Dean had been forced to deal with all of it . . . that was a weakness Sam wasn’t ready to acknowledge yet.

“Whoa, easy.” Dean was next to him, obviously hovering and waiting for Sam to fall over. “Dude, you just changed from a kid to an adult in an hour. You should stay in bed.”

“Lay off, Dean.” Sam managed to stumble his way over to the bathroom. Shutting the door in Dean’s face never felt like a good thing, but Sam needed a moment to breathe on his own.

He could practically feel Dean pacing outside the door, so he only took the time to relieve himself and wash his face before reemerging. Sure enough, Dean was directly outside, trying to keep himself calm.

“What’s the date?” Sam asked.

Dean blinked at the unexpected question. “Um, I dunno.” The hint of a smile curled the corners of his mouth. “You’re the one who keeps track of that.”

Guilt tasted like bile in Sam’s throat. “Yeah, right,” he said blandly. He tried to step back towards the bed, but his shaky legs chose that moment to give out, and he would’ve collapsed if Dean didn’t sweep in to catch him.

“Easy there, tiger.”

“Sorry,” Sam muttered, flushing. With his brother’s help he managed to get back onto the bed. Sam expected Dean to move away as soon as he deposited Sam, but instead he sat down on the bed next to him.

“You in any pain? Wasn’t able to give you meds, earlier.”

“I’m fine. Just sore,” Sam told him. He was finding it difficult to look Dean in the eye. Dean’s chin was covered in stubble—he needed to shave.

“You sure?” Dean pressed.

“Yeah, man, don’t worry about it. I’ll be good to head out tomorrow.”

There was a pregnant pause, which forced Sam to meet Dean’s eyes. He expected annoyance, possibly weary acceptance, but instead got something closer to grief. The guilt came up stronger than ever, and Sam couldn’t stand it. He rolled over, curling in on himself. It was quiet. Sam waited, tense, for Dean to move or say something, as he closed his eyes and pretended to fall asleep.

Just when he was about to actually fall asleep, there was a soft touch on his shoulder.

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispered.

* * *

Things were . . . off. Sam kept waiting for hell visions to come roaring back, but aside from nightmares, waking hallucinations were strangely absent.

Dean was acting strangely as well. He watched Sam continuously—sometimes openly, and sometimes from the corner of his eye—and his teasing jibes were absent. It was like he suddenly thought Sam was made of glass.

Which, Sam realized, probably had a lot to do with the fact that he managed to screw everything up by turning into a kid.

He did his best to stay on Dean’s good side by staying quiet, keeping everything clean and organized, and generally staying out of the way.

In return, Dean seemed even more on edge than Sam. Finally Sam suggested a hunt, handing over his laptop for Dean to examine.

“Only an hour from here. I know it’s research heavy, but—“

“Uh, you’re sure?” Dean asked, “I mean, after everything—“

“You don’t need to baby me anymore,” Sam said sharply. “I know I was nine and screwed everything up, but things are back to normal now.”

Dean sprang to his feet without warning. Sam flinched.

“Sam,” he said. “Sam, that’s not true.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking so tired and broken that Sam felt his chest constrict.

“Dean, don’t worry about it. Let’s just get back on the road, okay?”

His brother shook his head. “No, Sam. Not until we talk about this.”

Sam bit his lip. “Since when do you like to talk about things?” he joked weakly. “We’re good, man.”

Dean’s spastic movements stilled. He moved like a predator, smooth and silent until he was standing over where Sam was sitting on the bed.

“Sam,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

It took effort for Sam to draw his eyes up.

Dean seemed to realize how much he was towering above Sam, and sank to his knees. “Sammy, I didn’t realize how much you were fighting, and how awful everything was for you. And I, I’m sorry, for my part in making things worse for you.”

“Dean, you didn’t—“

Dean shook his head, cutting Sam off.

“I did. And seeing you as a kid . . . hell, I always resented you for your childhood, you know. Growing up for a while, innocent and ignorant about the supernatural while I struggled to take care of you. But you knew far more than I ever realized.”

Sam watched him warily. “So what’s your point?”

Dean got off of his knees, grunting a little with effort. “The point, genius, is that . . . um—“ for the first time in his speech, Sam caught some sense of vulnerability from Dean. “—um, that you were an awesome kid.”

It was a nice moment, Sam supposed, but not enough that he felt bad about breaking it with a snort. “Yeah, Dean, okay,” he said sarcastically. Lingering soreness slowed his movements a little, but he got up and snagged his stuff to put in the car. The least he could do was act like everything was normal. That way he wouldn’t break down.


	13. Chapter 13

No matter what Dean did, he was making no headway with Sam. His attempts to talk, open up about things were met with bewilderment and rejection. And why wouldn’t they be? It wasn’t like Dean had ever shown Sam he was willing to talk and support him in everything.

Self-loathing would get him nowhere, however. Let it never be said that Dean wasn’t occasionally creative.

A gesture—a big one—would be the best way to show Sam he was serious. Dean waited until they were at breakfast one day, in a diner quiet enough to talk, but loud enough that they wouldn’t be overheard. He slid the pamphlet he’d picked up across the table, avoiding the spilled syrup.

Sam went still, dropping his fork. “What’s this?” he asked.

Dean wasn’t able to read Sam’s tone. “I, uh, I’ve been researching this. I know the Leviathans know who we are, but this kind of place doesn’t make you give your real name. I talked to Frank and I’ve got the funds from him.” Dean waited for Sam’s response with something like terror making his palms sweat. Sam didn’t meet Dean’s gaze, carefully straightening his fork next to his plate before looking up with a jerk of his head.

Dean got his response . . . but not in the way he’d expected.

“I didn’t drink demon blood, Dean,” Sam said. There was rage in his eyes, and hectic color in his cheeks. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but I couldn’t bend a spoon with my head if I tried right now, much less exorcise a demon.”

“Sam, that’s not—“

Sam leaned forward. “Dean, I know I’m a freak and I’ll always have this demon blood, but that was a while ago, and I don’t need rehab. When I ran away, I came across a demon but I didn’t drink it’s blood. It—“

“Sam!” Dean barked. “It’s for me!”

His brother was speechless, and Dean shifted uncomfortably. There was a clattering of silverware from the diner’s kitchen, and he took a few deep breaths to calm down.

“Look, Sam, I believe you. And you kicked that addiction years ago and haven’t gone back, and I’m proud of you for that. But, uh, I’m sure you’ve noticed how much I’ve been drinking. And when I tried to stop for a while when you were a kid, I start shaking, and I think—“

“Withdrawal syndrome,” Sam murmured. “Can lead to delirium tremens and death.”

“Yeah.” Dean looked down, unable to meet Sam’s eyes.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was soft, almost inaudible in the clatter of dishes from the diner’s kitchen. “I think going to rehab . . . it—it’s great.”

There was enough sincerity in Sam’s tone for Dean to return to his meal. They ate for a few moments in silence.

Dean came to the next step in his plan. “So, yeah. I’ll be stuck in there for a while, so you can do whatever you want in the meantime. It’s been a while since you’ve gotten to goof off, right?” He tried to offer Sam a smile.

Sam’s fork was dropped again. “You don’t want me there with you?”

Dean caught the hurt flooding his brother’s face before Sam hid behind all that girly hair of his. “C’mon, dude, like you really want to see me go through that,” Dean said—practically pleading. He was the one who didn’t want Sam to see him hit that low point.

“I know it’ll be awful, but Dean, I can help. I’m not useless anymore.”

There it was. Plain as day, the perfect opening for Dean.

“Sam. You’re not useless. You never were.”

Sam looked unamused. “Please, Dean. There’s no need to lie.”

Dean opened his mouth to refute him, but their waitress came up with the check, and he subsided.

“You boys need anything else?”

“We’re fine,” Dean grunted.

“Thank you,” Sam told her. As soon as she walked away, Dean was about to jump back into the conversation, when Sam said calmly, “so we need gas.”

“. . . right. Uh, Sam—“

Sam shoved his plate away, nodding at Dean’s empty one. “Are you done?”

“Yes, but—“

“Let’s hit the road.”

Dean grumbled to himself as they stood. He considered himself the master of deflect and avoid; Sam must’ve learned from him well.

* * *

Dean was always aware of Sam, no matter what was going on. Even as they exited the diner and began walking down the street, he reacted easily when Sam stumbled, catching his overly-large brother by the elbow.

“Klutz,” he said fondly.

Sam glared. “Don’t even—“

Dean almost—almost—wasn’t ready when Sam collapsed. But hey, he may have had a crappy year, but he was still Dean freakin’ Winchester, somewhat awesome big brother. He safely lowered Sam to the ground, supporting him until he managed to get him flat on the concrete.

“Sam? Sam, what’s wrong?”

Dean didn’t recognize it, for a moment. It had been so long, so many years, but as Sam’s eyes moved, tracking something beyond Dean, it came to him with a twist of his gut.

“Easy, Sam,” Dean coached, as the vision played out. Sam began shuddering, and his eyes screwed shut from the pain. His nose started to bleed. “Breathe for me.”

Frightened hazel eyes met Dean’s. “Dean.”

“I know, Sammy.” Dean hauled him up. “We’ll figure it out, okay?”

Somehow they made it back to the motel room. Dean deposited Sam on the bed, forcing him to tilt forward and pinch his nose.

“Why,” Sam mumbled. “After everything, I—“

“The spell must’ve brought it back,” Dean said. “What did you see?”

His little brother blindly reached out, hooking his fingers in Dean’s breast pocket and pried out the brochures. “We’re not going to this place. Run by Leviathans.”

Dean sat back on his heels and cursed softly.

“You’re sure I didn’t drink demon blood?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, man, I’m sure.” Dean watched him carefully. “So the visions are back. Anything else?”

He got a negative response. Dean sighed and stretched. “Well, at least I won’t be eaten while I’m detoxing. That’s something.”

He barely got a smile out of Sam.

“After everything, why this?” he mumbled.

“I guess your powers have always been there,” Dean hypothesized. “I mean, that’s why you were staying a kid, right? So they must be free now.”

Sam grimaced. “I’m sorry for that.”

Dean tilted his head. “Sorry? Why should you be sorry?”

Sam gave him a knowing look. “C’mon, Dean. How freaked were you trying to take care of a nine year old again?”

Offended, Dean folded his arms over his chest. “Yeah? What’re you saying, I can’t take care of you when you’re nine?”

“No, I’m saying you shouldn’t’ve had to.”

Dean hesitated. “It . . . look, Sam, I’m not going to say it was great, ‘cuz it was a little crazy, but it wasn’t all bad. How ‘bout that ice cream, right?”

Sam shifted. “Yeah, well,” he mumbled.

“Y’know, I think you kinda saw me as Dad.” Dean deliberately made sure he wasn’t looking at Sam—he didn’t really want to see what his brother’s expression might be. “Was frickin’ weird. How well do you remember everything after the witch turned you? Is it like a normal memory?”

“Normal-ish . . . kinda weirdly colored, emotionally. I sucked at reading tells, that’s for sure.” Sam laughed, and Dean judged it safe to look up. “I swear, I was an idiot. I thought the world was out to get me and that you hated me.”

Dean’s throat felt too tight. The noise he made was something that sounded like a choked hiccough.

Sam seemed to take it as a laugh. “Yeah, stupid, right? Anyway, I wanna take a shower. I’ll look up some other rehab places once I’m done.”

Dean tried to think of something to say, but didn’t manage it before Sam went into the bathroom.

“If Sam’s the stupid one, then I’m a monkey’s uncle,” he muttered, falling back on the bed with a sigh.

* * *

A few days went by before Dean managed to corner Sam again. They were heading to rehab the next morning, and Dean knew he had to say something before it was far too late.

Unfortunately, the thing that opened up conversation was Sam waking up with a gasp in the early hours of the morning.

“Sam?” Dean asked drowsily.

“I’m fine, go back to sleep.”

Dean disobeyed, sitting up and letting the sheets pool around his waist. “Nightmare? Or vision?”

Sam’s laugh was bitter. “Just a normal nightmare.” He rolled onto his side, facing the back wall.

That was his cue to back off, but Dean didn’t take it. “Was it about hell?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Dean got out of bed, walking over to stand next to Sam’s. “Sammy,” he started, “how bad is it? Are you still seeing Lucifer around?“

Finally, Sam turned over to stare up at him. “Why do you care?”

That hurt, a little. Dean tried to modulate his voice, but it still sounded like a growl. “Sam, c’mon.”

“Hallucinations are gone. Only nightmares, now.”

Dean felt a weight fall off his chest. “You mean, being a kid made it better?”

Sam shrugged. “That or my freak powers.”

“Dude,” he breathed. “That’s awesome.”

Sam snorted a little, but some of the wrinkles on his face had smoothed out. Dean kept himself from pulling the guy into a hug—he was sure there would be plenty of that in rehab—and briefly clasped his shoulder. “C’mon, psychic wonder, let’s go lock me up in the nuthouse with the other boozy folks.”

“That is so politically incorrect, I don’t even know where to start,” Sam grumbled. He sat up, hair sticking up on one side from sleeping.

“Yeah, yeah, you want cheese with that wine?”

“We never drink wine.”

“We totally could if we wanted to,” Dean countered. “I’ll go get wine right now.”

“I thought we were trying to stop your drinking?” Sam was trying to stay serious and disapproving, but Dean could see the corner of his mouth quirking up. He grinned widely, chuffing Sam on the shoulder.

“Semantics, kiddo.”

“I will shoot you if you call me that again,” Sam threatened.

“Please, you’re all talk,” Dean baited.

“I’ll show you talk,” Sam growled, and lunged at Dean. They rolled around on the bed, wrestling like they were kids again, until Dean used a cheap shot—Sam’s weak shoulder, and got him in a choke hold.

“Say uncle!” he crowed.

Sam squirmed, but finally tapped out. “You suck,” he muttered, sitting up and running a hand through his now-even more wild hair.

“Big brother’s still got it,” Dean boasted. Without warning, Sam jabbed him in the side and he yelped.

“Big brother’s full of it,” Sam said. He was smiling, the remnants of the nightmare forgotten, and Dean eased back to lie down, smiling himself.

“Not true,” he contended.

It took a few minutes, but Sam finally settled down next to him, the early grey of dawn keeping them in bed for the moment before they got up for real.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean said. He could feel how Sam tensed without looking at him.

“Yeah?”

“We okay?” Dean turned his head, watching Sam. For a moment, they stared at each other. Sam didn’t seem like he was going to say anything, so Dean reached out and flicked him in the middle of his forehead.

“Yeah, Dean. We’re okay,” Sam said softly.

Maybe, Dean thought to himself, they’d someday make it past okay. Maybe after grieving for Bobby. Maybe after the Leviathans. But for now, okay would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! This was definitely not how I thought this story would end when I first started writing, but I hope it works for you anyway. Thanks for reading!


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